(Note: names changed for privacy.)
“Breathe in, BLOW!” bellows our instructor. The baths are chilly; it’s scary treading water in the deep end. I’m nine years old and can’t grasp the rhythm of front crawl. Nor can I see the bottom. I shake, as asthma sets in, a panicky helpless feeling, a kind of drowning. Fighting for breath, my search for relief is all-consuming. The white pills from my kitbag taste bitter. It’s ages before my lungs relax.
I’m a sickly child with an abundance of coughs and colds, well acquainted with fear. Mother worries a mere breeze or drop of rain could destroy me. I’m on so much medication – I practically rattle. It’s debilitating: life perpetually seems one step forward, two steps back.
Many years later, fitness and health improved, during a break from university studies I become a houseparent-cum-sports-instructor in a residential school for disabled children. Most have been disowned by their families. Short, fragile lives – too many will succumb to breathing problems as their young bodies atrophy. It’s heartbreaking to see them struggle when fear kicks in. My compassion for these children grows – surely offering warmth, kindness, exercise and a listening ear can improve their existence, right? Forty-five years on I picture them all, names, voices, moods…
My training continues – first in social work, later in counselling and psychotherapy, in state hospital and community settings, working alongside troubled people of all ages. It’s not about problem-solving; rather it’s about being with, being there, “showing up”, as my tutor encourages.
In the family clinic I’m offering a mix of support and gentle challenge, Gestalt- style, working with clay, crayons and paint, sandtray, musicking and voice, improvising in the relational dance. My friend Hilda and I start a local after- school group for deprived youngsters; challenging yet rewarding. Is this the work I want to do more of now? Hilda, a child psychotherapist, encourages me to enrol on Violet’s summer training. “She’s my supervisor – you’ll love her – her California course is wonderful!” she enthuses. So true! Violet and I form a strong connection, I’m feeling ripe for this ‘journey’ centred around building respectful, trusting relationships with children and young people.
I return to London with renewed purpose. Though working with complex families can be tough, it’s also deeply satisfying. My love affair with projective arts methods continues apace: back in clinic I’m in my element now. As years roll by, more tales of abuse, violence and loss are shared with me: fear and suffering take so many forms.
Billy (10) is in trouble with teachers for daydreaming. During breaktime, classmates mock his mother’s appearance prompting Billy to lash out. Mother looks gaunt and weak, a nasal canula connects her to the hissing oxygen cylinder she carries everywhere. In our session, Billy remains quiet, drawing cartoon figures, head down. I ask what’s happening in his life. “Last week uncle Paul came over: mum was back in hospital again,” he recalls sadly. An all-too-familiar experience for him. Billy is afraid his mother will die soon unless a donor is found for an urgent lung transplant. Will she be home when he returns today?
Angela, aged 15, is asthmatic. A lively girl, she loves the camaraderie at Navy cadets and is learning to play the bugle. “I’ve got a solo next month! It’s a big concert onboard ship,” she confides, looking tense. “I really want to do it – but suppose I lose my puff and freeze? That would be mortifying!”
I tell her how I got nervous and froze once whilst playing solo guitar to an audience: I forgot my place – for a few seconds that seemed an eternity. “What did you do?” she asks, wide eyed. “I felt weird but somehow carried on as though nothing had happened,” I recall. “Wow! Fake it to make it… I could do that!” she muses fiddling with her ‘puffer’.
I reveal my inhaler: “…. just for emergencies – when my puff runs out.” “Look – it matches mine!” she observes, brightening.
We try out some grounding exercises that I use before performing nowadays. “How’s your breathing now?” I ask.
“Still a bit tight – I don’t want to think about it,” she responds. I suggest a game of blow football across my desk using two straws and a ping pong ball… Within minutes she’s smiling broadly, her breath even again as she cheerfully trounces me…
“Sometimes – all I need is the air that I breathe and to love you,” sang The Hollies in 1974. Still true!
© 2024 Jon Blend. This article is from the forthcoming book, What’s in a Session? Who we are and what we bring – From therapists around the world, edited by Karen Fried.
