As a practicing psychologist, many clients over the years have taught me (Mitch) a great deal about how they were regarded by parents, teachers, and other caregivers when they “misbehaved,” “disrupted,” or “manipulated” others as kids. They taught me the importance of learning to balance holding children accountable with a heavy dose of compassion.
My clients (some kids and some adults contemplating their upbringing) very much wish more people who were charged with their care had learned how to see and reach “behind” their behavior. While they may have indeed misbehaved, and while they may acknowledge the need for consequences for these actions, they just want people to understand what was really driving things—an unseen inner landscape of turmoil and stress.
Consider this anecdote from my co-author who bravely shares his experience as a young student.
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I was officially diagnosed with an anxiety disorder at the age of eight. Mornings were particularly difficult for me growing up as a child and it was often a struggle for me to school on time.
Before school one morning, I was sitting with my one of my older sisters on the couch watching TV. I was having a good morning and was experiencing little to no anxiety, which was rare. As brothers and sisters do, we ended up in an argument over what to watch. My sister got so upset with me that when she was handing over the remote control to me she “accidentally” hit me on the temple on the left side of my forehead with, causing some swelling and what became a sizeable welt. I can actually remember my mother telling my sister that she was even more upset with her because, “Joe is actually doing well today and you ruined it!”
I told my mother that my head felt “okay” and that I still wanted to go to school. Often when I would experience panic attacks in the mornings I would need to excuse myself from the class to go to get a drink of water or to the bathroom in order to calm down. If it was a particularly difficult morning of anxiety, I would go to either the nurse’s office or school counselor’s office. My teacher, who knew of my issues from my parents telling her at the start of the school year, was always relatively polite but never said anything to me regarding my panic disorder. We had an unspoken understanding that she knew about it, but nothing more.
Insecurity about how others feel about you and whether you feel wanted or belong are real problems with kids with emotional and behavioral issues. Even though she was nice to me, I did not feel particularly wanted in her class but especially so on tough mornings, which in turn made those mornings even more anxiety filled as I did not feel I had the support of my teacher if I needed it.
Around noon time we started working on a group project dealing with maps and geography, which I really enjoyed. As I was working on our project, I could feel the left side of my head really start to throb. My friends said that it must be from that “golf ball” on the side of my head.
When I told my teacher how I felt, she told me to go to the fountain and drink some water and that it should help me feel better. She said, “Joe—I can see that you have a large bump on your forehead, but I don’t want you go to the nurse. Go sit back down and put your head down on the desk and it will pass.” I told her that I had already tried that and I had even taken aspirin that my mother had given me. I said I was in real pain. I started slowly walking towards the hallway door feeling extremely upset and angry. At that point she said loud enough for all the kids to hear, “Joseph, you do NOT have my permission to go to the nurse!” I pointed to my temple and said loudly, “But my head really hurts!” At this point everyone in the class had stopped what they were doing. It was that moment when the curtain goes up and all eyes go to the stage—the stage here was my drama playing out with my teacher.
My teacher then asked me to walk out into the hallway with her. You were only sent into the hallway when you were in big trouble, so all the kids we’re really intrigued by the turn of events on what was until then an average Thursday. Feeling like I was being treated like a liar and completely confused as to why I wasn’t allowed to leave, I felt really angry. My headache had basically turned into a migraine at that point and I was very unhappy.
Once in the hallway my teacher said to me, “Joe, what is going on?” I said, “My sister hit me with the remote this morning and that’s why my head is swollen and it really hurts and I want to go to the nurse’s office.” My teacher replied, “Joe, come on. I can see that you probably have a little headache but I know what’s going on here. You can’t leave the class every time you get an anxiety attack or you’ll never get better.” My teacher turned her head sideways with a dismissive look and said, “I’ve talked to your mother before about your condition and we both agreed months ago that it was best if you t