I have worked the better part of 16 years in child and
adolescent day and residential treatment. One feature of being a therapist
working with teenagers for so long is that other people are flabbergasted
and/or impressed that anybody would want my job, let alone enjoy it. Most people seem satisfied with the casual
reassurance that there are a lot of good things about it or that teenagers
really aren’t as bad as they sound. But
sometimes, I run into somebody who’s more curious and they press with the whys
and hows that I can’t easily explain.
After several of these encounters over the past months I decided to try
to really give their questions some thought.
Why am I still Sarah Hazelton, therapist; not Sarah Hazelton, private
chef, or knitting instructor, or raft guide, or (heaven forbid) barista?
As I click through the years of photos, sounds, smells and
stories catalogued away in my memories, I’ve certainly got my favorites. Some are hysterically funny, some are
heartbreakingly sad. Many are filled
with embarrassment and social blunders, most with teen awkwardness and
angst. There are beautiful stories that
I wish the world could read and the darkest tragedies that I wish I could
forget. They are multidimensional with
the sounds, smells, and pictures of the lives of other people that I’ve been a
part of (and trust me, the sounds and smells of teenagers are not always
pleasant).
The girl who thought she could run away from program when she
wore her roller skates to school, without thinking about how slow and klutzy of
a skater she was.
The boy practicing his social skills and not quite getting it
right when he initiated greeting me with “I’m doing good today how are you
doing?”
The eye-widening elation then crushing realization on the
ex-stoner’s face when I told him marijuana had just been legalized in his home
state of Colorado.
The bad*ss city gang-girl who had “done it all” paralyzed in
fear at the top of the bunny slope on skis for the first time.
The boy who hadn’t cracked a smile in days repeatedly
laughing throughout our session because I spent the whole time with my notebook
held up, blocking everything but his head, because his blindingly neon T-shirt
was just too much to look at for a whole hour.
The look on staff’s faces when we walked into the Country
House after a 4 day camping trip with the 10 girls stinking of campfire and no
showers.
For me, my memories go beyond the stories to the lives of my
students while they’re here, as well as what they’re missing at home. All the winter holidays, birthdays,
Halloweens, and summer vacations that my students spend with us, not with their
families. The junior proms missed, the
tryouts for soccer that came and went.
The birth of siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins. The first smiles, finally!
without braces; the recoveries from wisdom teeth removal. The high school graduations and the passing
of grandparents. The death of beloved
pets that they didn’t get to say goodbye to: dogs, cats, snakes, birds,
lizards, fish. Honestly, those ones are
the hardest...how can I not shed a tear in solidarity over little Roxy or Mr.
Puffins having to be put down.
I both bear witness to and take part in the lives of my
students and their families. The lives
that they lead while they’re here and the ones they left behind leave me with
stories and snippets of time that I carry with me. Some make me smile and laugh, others leave me
with a heavy heart. Maybe what would
drive others insane is what keeps me going.
These memories and stories give my days at work richness and boost me in
soul and spirit. Why do I enjoy my
job? How can I not enjoy my job?
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