No Drama

Into the Wilderness: Story 17

Catina flung the car door open and collapsed onto the seat. School had just finished and the late afternoon light slashed through the windows and across her face. She wrapped her arms around her and scrunched down, lifting her feet onto the dashboard. She was clearly unhappy.

I waited. In the past, I would have poked and probed. “What’s wrong? Are you upset? What happened?” After years of family therapy and what I call “parent training,” I knew to keep my mouth shut.

We drove out of the parking lot, through the industrial complex near her school, turned down the winding country roads. It wasn’t until we started up the incline to our house that she lifted her head and said, “a boy at school is really annoying.”

“Okay,” I said. “Why?” Another parent trick I had learned. Ask questions. Stay curious. Don’t fill the silences.

“He’s 14. He thinks he’s smart.”

I said nothing.

“He’s a Trump supporter.”

I nodded.

“He’s making fun of my scars.”

There it was.

Catina’s arms are filled with cuts she had embedded in her flesh before we took her to wilderness. They have healed, but raised, pink scars span forearm to shoulder. They are hard to miss. Catina doesn’t try to hide them.

During lunch, the boy had sauntered over to her and asked, “Did you get clawed by bears?” “Ha ha,” Catina had said, dismissing his immaturity. “I was in a dark place a few years ago and I’m no longer there.” The authenticity of her response amazed me.

As we turned into our driveway, I asked her what she wanted to do. She said, “he’s just a stupid boy” and bounced into the house.

But the boy did not stop. That night, he texted Catina’s friends, calling her a freak.

A few days later, he taunted her in the lunch room. “You must be really messed up,” he said. Catina stood strong. “You don’t even know me and what I’ve been through.”

The school quickly intervened, warning the boy, alerting the parents. Several days later, he silently mouthed “Bitch” to her across a crowded room. He was suspended with no second chance when he returned to school.

She felt like beating him up. She wanted to kick him where it hurts. She didn’t. The school gave her a sticker and spirit wear for not punching him. The principal praised her self control, and everyone- teachers and classmates- rallied around her.

She went to her school counselor. She talked to her therapist. She refused to go to school on the day the boy was back from suspension. When I told her she had to go anyway, she reminded me she was a trauma survivor and said she didn’t want to talk to me anymore.

And that was it.

I have no dramatic story to tell. No story of bullies or young male insecurities that breed future misogyny. I have no drama to share at all.

But that’s the victory. Navigating frustration and discomfort, managing the emotions that overtake us, dealing with insensitive louts: these are all part of life. Perhaps the greatest life lesson is getting through these awful moments. Catina managed a situation that could spin anyone into a destructive spiral of self-loathing and anger.

Before wilderness and RTC, I used to say all I wanted was for my girls to be happy. That’s not what I want anymore. What I really want is for them to be able to navigate the ups and downs of life. To bear the darkness that weighs all of us down sometimes. To hold the frustrations, insecurities and uncertainties that suck our spirits into a vortex of confusion and loss.

And that’s what Catina did. She managed to stay steady and stable. She reflected on the boy’s insecurities. She surmised he had learned such behaviors from his parents at home. She mustered up the strength to go back to school and own her space.

To be clear, Catina didn’t remain silent. She wasn’t compliant or accepting. She spoke up and spoke out even when she knew there’d be payback from the stupid boy, and there was.

I couldn’t be prouder.

There will be many more tough moments in Catina’s life. But I know she’ll get through. She has learned to bear the darkness and wait for the turn of the sun.