Reviving Ophelia - Mary Bray Pipher [81]
We all encouraged Cindy to join an activity. She thought about it for weeks, but finally she decided on the Home Economics Club. Soon she was telling me about making chocolate cake and place mats, about taking measurements for a dress and arranging flowers.
Delores came in monthly and grudgingly admitted that Cindy was doing better. As Cindy became happier and more involved with school, Delores began to enjoy her more. She was proud of her cooking and sewing. She agreed to take Cindy to the fabric store and help her select cotton prints for her sewing projects.
Cindy’s baby teeth began to fall out and she grew two inches in the first three months of therapy. She began showing some signs of puberty. Because happiness is largely a matter of contrasts, soon Cindy was happy. Her world had changed from one in which no one would listen to her to one in which a teacher, school counselor, volunteer and therapist would listen. She no longer carried her car coat with her.
When therapy stopped, Cindy gave me a pot holder with the words “God Bless Our Happy Home” embroidered on the front. I gave her a box of stationery and stamps and told her to write. She sends me carefully printed notes. Laddie is still her best friend at home. At school, her volunteer helps with her home economics projects.
The counselor has kept up regular meetings with Cindy. Periodically she calls to say that Cindy is growing physically and doing okay at school. She is more inclined to smile and talk to other kids. She laughs in the lunchroom and volunteers for school outings and projects. She says the parents haven’t changed; in fact, their drinking seems worse. Recently the father was arrested for driving while intoxicated. She is considering reporting this family to child protective services.
PENELOPE (16)
Penelope was inundated with many of the blessings that Cindy had been denied. She made straight As with little effort at her private prep school. She was tall, tanned and regal in her expensive outfits and stylish shoes. She was a member of the country club clique and the school’s prize-winning debate team. Penelope had been to Europe twice and on an African photo safari. Every fall her mother took her to Chicago to buy clothes, and every summer she attended the finest camps in the Rockies. Yet she was a “poor little rich girl” who came to me after an almost successful suicide attempt.
Penelope walked into my office dressed in a white tennis outfit and carrying her racket. She fanned herself and made the exaggerated motions of someone who is hot and out of breath. I asked why she was in my office.
“I took some pills and the dumb doctor at the emergency room wouldn’t release me unless I had a therapy appointment.”
“Your mother told me that you almost died.”
Penelope dropped her mouth open in a look of mock amazement. “No way. I was sick but they released me the next day.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I was upset with my parents. I want a car for my birthday. Nothing expensive, just a Mazda or a Honda Accord. They wouldn’t buy me one.”
She slammed her fist into the chair. “They have plenty of money. They are just saying no to teach me a lesson. I hate them.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
“They expect me to do chores and clean my room. That’s utterly stupid. Mom sits on her fat butt all day and hires a housekeeper to do her work. So why should I have to work?”
Penelope had a common rich kid’s problem—she expected to be given everything she wanted. Kids from more modest homes learn early that they can’t get everything they want—their parents can’t afford it. But I sensed that there was more going on than just the money, and I asked her to talk more about her parents.
She sighed. “They don’t get along. Dad works all the time. He