HAPPY PLACE

HAPPY PLACE
A tenth grader
         In my ninth grade class
Seemed to have an attitude...
         Always angry.
Until one day,
Her whole face changed
When she smiled.
I assigned her a desk
Close to mine,
         For many reasons.
Primarily to keep discreet
Any acknowledgment
She was a grade older
         Than her classmates.
Because of her proximity to me,
We seemed to bond,
         Growing closer
Every time we talked.
She was assured
         -comforted-
Early in her year with me
By a friend who had me
         As a teacher
The year before;
Who vouched that I could be
         Trusted.
Every day thence,
The three of us
Would banter during hall passing.
We'd laugh and her
         Whole demeanor
         Would change.
She failed my class that year.
I knew she would
When she never handed in journals,
         A heavily weighted assignment.
Those damned journals...
I hounded
         Nagged,
         Begged her
To get her thoughts on paper;

Begged her to trust me.
It worried me that she wouldn't.
It worried me how,
Every time I would ask her
Anything remotely personal.
She would drop down that
         Thick curtain and raise that
         Brick wall;
A fortress to her thoughts...
Shutting me out.
Her junior year, she visited me,
         Frequently,
With friends -
         'People I had to meet /
         People who had to meet me,'
She'd say,
         In her bubbly bipolar way...
One day, while on my duty,
An isolated room where ejected students
         Were sent for bad behavior,
I heard a commotion in the hallway.
In the fishtank-window,
I heard a screaming, followed by...
A security guard,
A teacher,
A counselor,
Then her...
Balled fists at her side,
Body shivering in pent-up rage
And frustration
I jumped up from behind the desk
And ran into the hallway.
The security guard
Outstretched his arms,
Barricading her from everyone,
The way one does with a rabid dog or
         Raccoon.
Isolating, alienating her from
         Harm and help.



Seeing the panic and rage
         Clouding her vision like cataracts,
I broke through that barrier          
         Of beefy arms
And reached for her,
Whispering in a calm voice,
         Where can I take you?
         How can I help?
         Can you take a deep breath for me?
When her eyes found mine,
The clouds seemed to clear,
As if my voice anchored her.
Clarity took hold
And she hugged her books to her chest
A self-soothing gesture.
I put my arm cautiously around her
And steered her
Down the hall toward the
         Guidance office.
I opened the door and left her,
         My final word an invite to my room,
A tether, I hoped, to a safe place,
         If she felt
         At any point
         She may need one.
Her response?
         Thanks, but I'll be okay.
Ten minutes later, as I was hunkering down
         To each my lunch,
A knock on my door let me know
         Or at least hope
That it was her embracing my offer.
It was, I breathed in relief.
I let her in and was greeted with
         Apologies for disturbing me          
         During my free time.
I hugged her and told her
         Never apologize - my room is
         Always open.
She spent many class periods in my room
         That week.
Cutting classes to spend time in          
         What she called
         'The only place that makes me
         Happy.'
As I taught, she'd sit in my chair
Spinning around and wheeling back and forth,
Laughing when I'd throw a closet's worth of
         Balls at her.
She'd come during period 8,
My sacred Jordan and Vicky period...
She fit right in, talking,
         Complaining to and with them.
All the annoying students
         And the drama they caused.
We all got along that week.
That Thursday, the fourth day
After that hallway tantrum,
while sitting and wheeling and spinning
         in my teacher chair,
she looked around and quietly stated,
         as if she was noting this somewhere,
'This is the only place I feel happy and safe.'
But, did I hear a whispered sidenote?
Did I hear...
         Or just imagine...
Did she say 'I'll miss this...'
Did I misinterpret this in my head to mean
         When she graduated next year,
When, really, she was talking about...
         Hinting at...
A much more carefully planned
Escape in the much nearer future?
Did I miss
An obvious sign for help?
Did I fail her again
         The next day,
Friday,
When she walked into period 8,
In all her bipolar happiness,
With a friend, laughing and loud,
Only to invade a rare moment
When Jordan was very seriously (selfishly?)
         Studying for a test;
Vicky in the back,
In all her awkwardness,
Was working on a test as well.
And I, at my computer,
Working on overdue lesson plans.

She had inadvertently run into an invisible
         Brick wall and pulled up short,
As if smacked in the face
With our self-involvement,
However candid and unintentional
         On our behalf.
She, and her friend, sat,
Sobering up from whatever
Made them laugh upon their entrance.
After a few minutes of what in hindsight
They may have perceived as
         Us ignoring them,
They both got up and left, saying,
         'Well, goodbye.'
To which I offhandedly replied,
         'Have a nice weekend.'

Now, when any routine visit
From any of my 'regulars' doesn't happen,
Especially on a Friday,
I panic, wondering if I did anything wrong
That week, or the day before...
Wondering...
What were my last words to each of them?
Especially those who consider me
         And my safe place room
         Safe and trustworthy;
The students who come in
         Before school,
         On their free periods,
         On my free periods,
         After school...
Are they reaching out?
         Screaming for help?
         Begging me to notice that they're
                   Not quite right today?
That they're slightly off and
         Hurling hints at me;
Hints that I may not have pick up on
         In a moment of selfishness?
I'm well aware that I can't save them all
But, God, do I fear my part;
         My failure
To notice what may well be
         Obvious signs.
Blame and guilt are no way to live,
But they're better than death.

Part of me died
When I received that
Heartbreaking news on Sunday afternoon.
But another part of me was awakened,
         Or born.
A sixth sense...
          A sick sense;
A hypersensitive awareness
That I need to
         -must-
Do everything in my power
To help the forgotten,
         Ignored,
         Blown-off,
         Pushed aside,
         Passed over,
Kids.
Kids who seem to have it together,
When 'it' is clearly being stretched
very thin on the inside.
Or kids who seem so over-the-top
         Begging for attention
         Dramatic;
Some say it's all a show,
         A boy or girl crying wolf.
But I'd rather listen
         And watch...          
PAY ATTENTION!
So those wolves never
         Get them and
         Devour them
From the inside out.
I know I can't save them all,
         I do...
But those who find my world
A pleasant, warm,
         Welcoming, safe, happy place,
I hope they know
         And believe in their hearts,
That I care for them
Right down to my
Bruised and battered soul.
Maybe...
If the counselors
Or school psychologist
Were available
         And not administering
         That damn PARCC state test
She might still be alive.
Maybe, if...
I had been more welcoming that Friday,
Instead of being engrossed,
         Preoccupied with my stupid
         Useless lesson plans,
I maybe wouldn't have missed
         Such a valuable sign,
A silent cry for help behind her
         Smiling fade...
She might still be alive.
Maybe, if...
Jordan didn't have that
         Stupid test to study for
         That day...
She'd still be here.
Maybe, if...
Mia had gone to her house,
         Into her bedroom          
         Just a few minutes earlier,
She might still be here.

Maybe, if...
Everyone,
         Any one of us who loved her,
Had read a little more closely
Between the lines of her
         Verbal sentences and stories,
She'd still be here.
Maybe, if...
That one girl,
         Who made that one comment,
That made her feel 'some type of way,'
Didn't make that comment
         That day,
She'd still be with us.
Her spirit is still here.
Her absence is still          
         Such a presence.
I'm grateful that the loss of her
Brought together
Those she left in her wake.
Suicide is selfish because...
You're not just killing yourself.
You're killing everyone
You've loved;
Everyone who ever
         Loved you.
You've made everyone
         Whose confidence you helped
         Build and nurture and support
Suddenly doubt themselves          
         And wonder
What we could have done;
Wonder what signs we missed;'
Wonder if we were so self-involved
         That we didn't even notice
Such a blatant pain;
         Such a noticeable resolve in your eyes
         The day before,
                   Or the day of...
That last day for you.
That last day of you.
You killed so many with your death.

PTSD, HAPPY PLACE
Post-Trauma
Shouldn't be considered
         A disorder,
Except, maybe that's fitting
Since when you've experienced
A trauma so immense,
         So intense,
Maybe it does exactly
         What it deems...
Scrambles your mind
Into a disordered mess
         Of sticky images
That just won't shake loose
         And free you of them.
Post-Trauma
Is never really post
It stands guard
Over your being,
As if a sergeant
Watching over his unit,
         Standing his post.
Sergeant Trauma,
         So reliable,
         Is never defeated;
Never sleeps, keeping you awake,
Making sure you never forget.
Stress?
Oh, yeah.
Top ranked
When a diagnosis arrives,
Declaring a disorder,
It becomes a niggling,
         Suggestion
         Reminder
         Invitation
Along with the
         Ever-present
         Very reliable.
PTSD
Come thoughts...
         Curiosities
About the other side of
         That experience.
Like a coin,
Two sides to every trauma.
The survivor
And the victim.
The survivor,
Sometimes,
In those sleepless nights,
When stress,
         And trauma,
Are standing post,
And your brain is
         Disordered,
Gets curious...
         What's behind door number 2?
Starts to wonder
What is was like...
         In all those moments,
Those dead-end,
         Permanent,
         No-looking back,
         No second thoughts
Moments,
         Before and during.
Does the victim
Equally wonder...
What would have been,
         Or might have been,
Behind door number 1?
In all those moments
         She missed...
All those moments
         After?
Maybe,
On her side,
She imagines,          
         And walks through
Your traumatic experience
When you found her.
Maybe she wonders
What emotions
Swirled
In a whirlwind tornado


As your eyes focused
         Adjusted,
         Registered...
Informed your brain
What was happening.
As you now wonder
Emotionally curious
For a whole year
Before finally giving it
         A try...
Physically desperate
To stave this itching
         Burning
Curiosity to know
What is was like
To stand on the chair (or bucket?)
To feel that material
         Tightening around your neck
         And throat
As you looked toward          
Your bedroom door -
An exit...or entrance.
Possibly thinking nothing;
Possibly thinking everything.
Did she imagine,
         For even one moment,
Who would find her?
How they would feel,
         React,
         Respond?
How their eyes would look
As they registered
With utter horror
What they saw before them.
As she kicked out from under her
         That chair or bucket
Tightening that material...
Constricting her air,
         Her breath,
         Her final thoughts
         Her life,
         As those images remained
         Staining...
As she tunneled toward
(a better place?)
Death.

As an omniscient observer,
A listener in head and heart,
I view this all
From an aerial perspective;
         A fly on the wall,
A brutal image below.
Who is the victim
         And who the survivor?
Who's to know for sure?
The survivor becomes a
         Domino-effected victim;
         A butterfly-effected statistic,
As a tidal wave of guilt and anger
Wash over her until she
Needs to know          
         Needs to feel;
Becoming another victim.
And the victim?
Was she healed upon her death?
Restored to a better,
Happier time
         Or place?
Does such a place even exist?
Does she know
         (Can she see from where she is?)
The mess she left behind?