BRACKAFRICKAGREKLSPUKENCHA....July 31, 1999

BRACKAFRICKAGREKLSPUKENCHA....July 31, 1999

Just over a month or so ago, I began working with a new client. In and of itself, this is not particularly unusual. Nevertheless, with each new fresh shiny bright-eyed seemingly eager to please face comes the knowledge that I may be spending great amounts of time alone with Young Charlie Manson.

Surprisingly, the histories of my clients diverge little in comparison with each other; most have undiagnosed mental illnesses or behaviour disorders, are medicated anyway, and above all put their parent(s) or foster parent(s) through their own private version of hell on a daily basis. Most have been victims of abuse, usually physical, as their care givers lose their patience more rapidly with each passing day, not knowing how to avoid internalizing the child's episodes. After being punched, kicked, bitten, pinched, spit on, jabbed, stabbed, pushed, pulled, and yanked on day in and day out, for reasons that transcend the rational, it is a struggle not to return some of the physical intrusion in an effort to restore order and vent long building frustrations. A great many parents feel this kind of "discipline" is their last resort. It is rare that they will seek assistance from a para-professional such as myself, most end up as a referral on the desk of a social service agent before any intervention takes place.

Despite being able to bode almost verbatim a new client's brief existence and wordly experience, their propensity is ever elusive. In one two hour stint I could be with Master Sweetness and Light, only to be followed up with Michael Corleone Jr. Sometimes the former is a brief facade for the latter, sometimes the latter is merely a coping mechanism to aviod further pain. However, this evening, whilst attempting to provide leisure to my new client and respite for his mother, I was formerlly introduced to....

....Damien.

Had I gotten close enough to look, I would have wagered the 666 tattoo to be where prophecised.

The evening started out smoothly enough. As a rule I usually begin a session a bit guarded in case that day said client has a general hate on for the world, does not like what I am wearing, does not like the way I styled my hair, takes issue with being greeted with "How are you today?", or perhaps dislikes what is playing in the cassette player. All the aforementioned have been used as rationale by client when confronted with the consequences for having verbally or physically abused me.

This evening, I took Damien to the arcade in an effort to avoid the oppressive heat; one of the few things malls are good for is air conditioning. I thought we were having a good time. He was not taking losing to me at MK4 very well, but relaxed when we moved on to something less challenging. I began to let said guard down, thinking I may just get through the remaining hour unscathed.

Then he began butting into other people's games.

Not only was this disrespectful to the person who had the decency to take him out (moi), but also to the person who shelled out $1.00 for a mere five second game, having lost their vicarious hero to Damien's distractions. After a warning, after a chat, and after an in depth discussion about how rude he was being, it was quite apparent that Damien had no interest in seeing the light.

I decided we would leave the arcade.

I began erecting the brick wall.

Little did I know I would need to hold up in the fortress this time.

Since we were at the mall, I told Damien that I needed to go to the grocery store for Reekie and Moo food. Given his surface admiration of my pups, I figured he would keep it together so as not to be the cause of their temporary starvation. I wonder how many times I need to learn that to assume makes an ass out of u and me.

Upon entering the grocery store, he darted off ahead of me, and did not even bother to say where he was going. Given the anger stew that was simmering as a result of his extrication from the arcade, I did not relish the idea of his being unleashed to a hoarde of holiday weekend grocery shoppers.

I called him back.

Highlands lifts the cover to peek at the bubbling brew.

Damien quasi-returns, hovering a few feet away like a puppy scorned, exclaiming to myself and anyone else in a ten mile radius, "I'm just going to get a cookie!!!"

A hex on that over zealous market baker who decided giving kids a free cookie was a cute idea.

"Damien, I need you to...."

Highlands takes a deep whiff of the stew.

Apparently, Damien's mind reading abilities were in top form, because he was walking away as I uttered those few syllables.

"Damien, I need you to stay with me!" I was forced to exclaim to his back.

Whilst his sauntering back a few feet, I did not give him another chance to dart away without attempting to address his behaviour.

"We will make our way to the...."

Highlands samples a spoonful of the stew.

All of a sudden I was talking to back again. Too bad he would not let me get closer, for I would have had a chance to verify the existence of prophecised tattoo.

"Damien, come over here at once, please and thank-you!". It is a good thing he does not have a common name, for every child called Damien that was in the mall that night would have been at my side. The one I was addressing finally got the hint that I wanted him to come to me. He came alone.

"If you cannot stay next....", I started.

"Blah, blah, blah, nyah, nyah, nyah", he mocked, scrunching up his face, raising his upper lip, and swivelling his head to and fro in the most poignant effort at sarcasm known to man.

"I'm taking you home now", was my response. I absolutely detest being mocked, but his behaviour certainly surpassed any more chances nonetheless.

Highlands chokes on the stew.

He heard this loud and clear.

For some reason, his psychic abilities cannot function at the same time as his auditory perception.

Exit Damien...enter Lucifer.

To say that he freaked at the statement that he was going home would be understated. He had a major spasm.

It started right there at the threshold of the grocery store, and burgeoned as I made my way up the mall toward the exit closest to the car, all the while ignoring this ten year old spewing sailor blushing expletives. I was the only one, it seemed, with the capacity to do so. He was making quite a spectacle of himself. Ironically, it was not him that the gawkers were gawking at, it was me. All I could think of was, "Okay, here we go, this time someone is going to call the police...not on him, but on the focal point of his outburst, me. What did I do to make this child behave so?, they would wonder...". Little do they realize, I wager, that I would welcome intervention from the city's "finest" at times like this. Imagine their reaction when I explain to them I made the heinous decision to not permit him his free, god-given-right-to-a cookie. Bad, bad me.

His verbal harassment moot, Damien switched tactics. In addition to screaming at the top of his lungs, he began shoving, grabbing, and punching me back towards the grocery store. Luckily, there was a mall exit right there, and I tugged my weight and his through the door. Unfortunately, the car was waaaaay at the other end of the parking lot. Fortunately there were not as many wide-eyed gawkers outside the complex as there were in. I hate it when my work develops into a spectators' sport. It is the epitome of embarrassment.

In the midst of continued verbal and physical abuse, we finally made it into the car. At first, he refused entry until I told him I would merely call his mother to cab it up to get him herself. Once sitting in the car, he shrieked,

"BRACKAFRICKAGREKLSPUKENCHA", accompanied with spittle landing on my arm and froth at the corners of his mouth.

I am sure he meant to say something in English, but in his heightened rage he accidentally reverted to either hell-ese or speaking in tongues. There were several less than productive or nuturing comments coursing through my frustrated mind, but in the wake of his Linda Blair cum-Exorsist impression, I knew it was in my own best interests to just keep eyes ahead and foot on gas. I wonder what he would have done had I broken out into a Rosary prayer?

I hazzard to guess we wold not have made it to his house. As it was, we did. He cried the entire way. I felt like doing the same, for both of us.

....Blessed Be