A colleague of mine called one day and asked if I would be able
to see a client of his immediately—a mother with her four-year-old son, Mark. My colleague explained that Mark had been repeatedly sexually abused by his father, as reported by the mother. The mother was currently involved in a custody batle, trying to convince the courts of the father's abusive behavior. The child had been questioned and tested by many court-appointed therapists over the last few months. However, the process of decision-making was still in abeyance. In the meantime Mark's behavior and emotional status continued to deteriorate rapidly. The mother reported that he was awakening in the middle of the night with uncontrollable screams, and that he was extremely fearful during the day, manifesting numerous tearful outbursts.
I agreed to see the child and his mother the following morning. When this lovely mother walked into my office, she was carrying an entire armload of files and case material already amassed on her young son. Mark, a small, ash-blond boy with bright blue eyes and a hesitant smile, held onto the pocket of his mother's jeans with his tiny hand. Although the mother looked overwhelmed with emotion and distress, she bravely sat down on the couch and began ruffling through her files as efficiently as she could. Mark sat close to her, his fingers still looped through one of her pockets. I noticed his eyes scanning the many shelves of toys, games, stuffed animals, puppets, pictures, and drawing materials that were all around him.
Did I want to read the previous therapist's report first? Or did I want to glance through the extensive court report? For the first several minutes of this encounter I followed along with the mother's wishes,
all the while peripherally observing little Mark. I glanced through the therapist's file, letting my eyes scan the key words. It seemed that
there were endless psychodynamic explanations for what had occurred between the father and his child. I flipped through hefty court pro- ceedings, and again a blur of suggestions and recommendations presented themselves. An inner awareness of feeling uncomfortable and distracted began to emerge in me. It felt as if 5,000 facts were all jumping up
METAPHOR IN CHILD THERAPY 29 and down in the room, vying for my attention. The more "information" I took in, the further removed from the child I felt.
Meanwhile this little four-year-old boy before me, whom this barrage of information concerned, was sitting silently and sadly next to his mother. He moved very little, but his eyes continued to wander curiously about the room. Even though my review of the "pertinent information" was occurring within a short time-period of the session, I realized nonetheless that I could no longer continue in this manner. I became quickly aware that I had allowed this seemingly relevant material to interfere with the most essential element in the treatment of this child: making contact with Mark in his own -world.
I put all the materials aside, explaining to the mother that it was important for me to just play with Mark for awhile so that we could get to know each other. I then went over to Mark, took his hand in mine, and with an uplifting tone in my voice said, "I've noticed you've been looking around this room, and I'll bet you'd like to get an even closer look." His eyes brightened as he nodded yes and began to move off the couch. As this shift took place, I noticed that my sense of discomfort and disconnection began to lessen.
As Mark looked around the room, I crouched down next to him and tried to look around the room through his eyes, not through the eyes of an adult therapist. I repeated the words he used to describe the toys and the games he saw. I also matched his childlike tonality and pronunciations, not only for the sake of making it sound like I was talking his language, but more for myself—to feel how my own four-year-old child within would feel being in yet another office with another therapist after such traumatic life experiences.
As therapists, we are trained to be concerned with such issues as objectivity and transference. However, we cannot really be objective about something until we know what it is the person is experiencing. This child had been objectively assessed to the point of accruing a combined psychological and court file that nearly outweighed him! Clearly there was an abundance of objectivity present in this case. Therefore, I felt strongly that it was vital for me to do just the opposite—to put aside temporarily all objectivity and really identify with Mark by allowing myself to feel my own child within. I knew I had to sense some of Mark's world before all the objective information would have any helpful meaning to me in terms of intervening.
30 THERAPEUTIC METAPHORS FOR CHILDREN Although Mark had been described by previous therapists as extremely reticent and unresponsive, in this first session he was able to begin giving expression to the many struggles in his life via artwork and - storytelling. This occurred only after we had spent some thirty minutes mutually exploring the room and getting to know each other in the special way that only "children" can.
There are also times when we have searched for ways to help parents suspend their adult viewpoints in favor of the very real world of their child's problem. This suspension automatically requires parents to make at least a minimal connection to their own child within, for by agreeing to see the situation from their child's point of view they are actually seeing it from behind the lens of their own childhood life experiences. From this vantage point two important gains occur: (1) they can feel a greater empathy for what their own child is experiencing, and (2) they are simultaneously accessing a potential wealth of resources learned decades ago but not normally available to them from their adult perspectives.