The Gift

This week at school, a student brought me a gift and laid it at my feet. He gave me the gift of his trust. He trusted me with his story of abuse. I knew this gift was coming because since the first of the school year, he has been dropping little hints of what was to come in his writing. He first trusted me enough to tell me that sometimes he felt like his brain was a series of little rooms and that sometimes he just went into another room in his head. He said, “It is hard to explain, but it happens.”


Inside, I thought, “You don’t need to explain. I understand perfectly.”

He asked a few weeks ago, “If I tell you about abuse that happened a long time ago, do you have to report it?”

“Has it been resolved?” I answered.

“Yes, the person went to jail.”

“No, I don’t have to report it.”

In his written assignment that day, instead of writing the sentences I asked for, he told his story of abuse. In one paragraph, he told me things that I already knew he had been through because in my classroom he is a chameleon.
I am not a doctor or a psychologist. My experiences with DID are only my own, a few other people I love, and a lot of personal research. I can’t diagnose this beautiful child, but he certainly displays many signs of DID.

When I gave his paragraph back to him, I said, “I’m sorry this happened to you. Are things good in your life now?”

“Yes, I am safe now.”

“I’m glad you are safe.”

“When the abuse happened, I did some things I regret,” he said.

“Have you ever talked to a counselor about those things?”

“Yes, but I always forget to tell them the things I am so ashamed of. Can I talk to you after class?” he asked.

“Of course you can.”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear what he would tell me. I didn’t have to worry about it because by the time class ended, he had already forgotten and hurried to his next class.

I knew it was time to talk to the school counselor. I told him what I knew about this child’s situation. I asked if he could call the student in and let him know that he had a safe place to talk about things.

During class today, I pulled my student aside and told him that I had spoken to the counselor.

He said, “He called me in today.”

“How did it go? Did you feel okay talking to him?”

“Yes,” he answered and added, “I really opened up to him. I think he was surprised about all the things I told him. Thank you for having him talk to me.”

“I’m glad you have a place here where you can go and talk to someone. It helps to have someone tell you that you are reacting normally to a bad situation.”

“Sometimes,” he said, “when I am watching T.V. with my dad, my mind goes somewhere else. I come back and time has passed, but I don’t know where the time has gone.”

I listen, but I know this is his journey. I also know it would be completely unsafe and unwise to discuss my DID with a student.

He asked, “Do you know any good books about time travel.”

I can see his mind trying to figure out what is happening to him when he loses time. I hope the counselor knows about DID and will help him through this.

I help him find a book about time travel and send him to his next class. Inside, I feel sorrow that this beautiful child was put on this path by an adult who should have kept him safe but instead chose to abuse him. I feel rage that someone hurt this child – this child who brightens the room with every smile. I am thankful that our school district understands how important school counselors are.

I wish I had a few moments to cry or rage or break things, but thirty-three more children are walking through the door.

My rage scares me. I know that if I had a gun and the person who hurt this child in front of me, I could gladly pull the trigger and send him/her straight to hell, and I think, “Am I any better? If I could gladly kill an offender; am I any better?”