leslie.

Let me tell you about my job. What it's really like. What I don't usually tell people. What people think they want to hear, but don't really. What I don't really want to talk about, but need to.

My job is traumatizing. I don't feel like it sometimes because it's so normalized, but it is. Screaming children. Getting punched. Clothes ripped. Manually restraining a bloody child who snuck a razor into school and cut his arms.

It's not always like this, but sometimes it is, and I choose to pretend that this "sometimes" doesn't exist. When I talk about my work I do it in a factual manner. Sometimes I"ll tell a dramatic story and laugh about it because it dulls the pain.

Yet I love what I do. I get to love the kids who are told they are unlovable. And usually I am damn good at rational detachment - how to explain it, I don't know. I love these kids and care for them, but when they go, I'm glad. They come, they go. But sometimes one or two of them will wiggle their way into the deepest part of my heart and truly affect me. Let me tell you about one of them, whose story will allow you to know a deep part of me. (Note: When I tried to actually talk about this with a friend in Starbucks, I broke down in tears, because when I let myself think about feelings related to my job, it hurts.)

Her name is Leslie (Well, not really, but for HIPPA's sake, we'll call her that). The first day I met Leslie, she was wearing a night gown, freshly transported from a residential subacute facility. This slightly pudgy nine-year-old girl was jumping up and down, loudly giggling and having zero respect for personal boundaries. I was assigned to be Leslie's "primary," which meant that I would be responsible for creating incentive plans with her, collaborating with the treatment team to identify treatment goals, attend her medical appointments with her, and be her "go-to" person when she needed something.

During our first check-in group with the clients we introduced Leslie and asked her if she'd like to share anything about herself. She did. Her words:

"I bite, and I don't let go."

She wasn't kidding. She even identified the body parts she usually bites, and those that she never will. During the coming weeks, Leslie was involved in several manual restraints a day due to her physical aggression, which was often triggered by situations that she perceived as "not fair." Her warped sense of justice was chilling. "You won't give me more cookies, so I"m going to bite you." Leslie was institutionalized, having been through 13 foster homes and several residential treatment facilities. She knew how to test limits because she had to! Everywhere she went was different. Once she told her therapist, "If they offer me one cookie, I say I want two. If they offer me two, I say I want three."

As Leslie's primary, she became instantly attached to me (sometimes to the point where she would get angry at me or her peers if I spent time with anyone other than her). I tucked her in bed every night, although it was a miracle if we could get her to stay there. I sang her to sleep. I read her Bible stories when she asked. Slowly, Leslie wiggled her way into my heart.

This girl is one of the smartest children I know. She has such a hunger for learning! At night, she would read books in bed about history, and biology, and the world. She LOVED animals more than life itself, and even the earthworms in the yard in the mud could not escape her tender touch. What really blew me away was Leslie's faith. She loves God with her whole heart and her depth of understanding is astounding. One time she told me, "God loves us. But he gave us free will. He lets us choose whether or not we want to follow him." One time I was riding with her to a dentist appointment and Leslie requested that we listen to a Christian radio station. On the station the DJ asked, "How do you know that God loves you?" Leslie told me, "I know that God loves me because he created me. He created the world. How could he not love me?"

Every time I think about this, I want to cry. If this nine year old girl, who has one of the most traumatic histories I have ever heard, can without a doubt say God loves her, who am I to ever question?! Not that questioning is bad, but this puts things in perspective. Leslie has no family. Her biological mother would handcuff her to a bed and abuse her. Her biological sibling was adopted a couple of years ago, so Leslie had to say a final good-bye. On one occasion she was returned to her mother, but removed after two days due to continued abuse. Of course she suffers from Reactive Attachment Disorder! Of course she suffers from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder! But she loves Jesus and life. Wow.

I stopped working on Leslie's unit full time almost a year ago. When I told her I was leaving, she cried and left the room. When I checked in with her a few minutes later, she told me that I was the only person she was able to love. She has even slipped up before and called me "mom" before catching herself. She asked me if I would write the lyrics down to the songs I sang her at bedtime before I left.

Fast forward to Halloween this year.

I ran into Leslie in the HR office where I was filling out paperwork. She was trick-or-treating around campus, and she saw me. "Julianne!!" she called, and ran over to me and wrapped her arms around me. "This is the best Halloween ever! I'm never letting you go!!!" I unwrapped her arms from around me and saw tears in her eyes. I had tears in mine, too. I held her hands in mine and looked at her. She was growing up. Leslie was dressed like a cat for Halloween and was wearing makeup. No longer was she a pudgy little nine year old with a cropped haircut. Now she was almost eleven, with long hair and a slender figure. I took her face in my hands and told her, "You are so beautiful." She truly was.

"Guess what?!" she told me, while jumping up and down. "I'm getting adopted! I've met my family and they are sooooo nice. And they live on a farm with animals!" I was so happy for her! Leslie had gotten to meet her family, who staff said were so sweet, and see her bedroom. Leslie was very rarely physically aggressive anymore, and was acting as a positive role model to her peers. She was ready to be healed and be adopted. I could hardly contain my joy and cried as I drove home.

I wish this story ended happily there.

I ran into Leslie this week as I was waiting to meet a coworker on campus. She ran up, hugged me, and said, "I'm never letting you go!" I asked her about her family. "Aren't you going to discharge this month?" Her face fell. "No," she told me. "That didn't work out." It turns out her family read her paperwork after meeting her and decided they couldn't do it. She doesn't know that's why.

So now, Leslie remains in residential treatment. If I were married and in a stable situation, I would freaking adopt this girl. I love her. I know we're not supposed to, but I do and I can't help it.

But now you know her story. And there are so many like it. Leslie has changed my life. I hope this helps you better understand me. And my job. And the mental health system in general.

I didn't write this for you, though. I wrote it for me. I needed a place to process this in an honest way. And this is my palate, where I paint with words and ponder.

Leslie, I will keep thinking about you and praying for you.

This is more than just a job.