"The child who didn't cry"

A Peek Into Psychodynamic Bibliotherapy In Action

This story is inspired by a real clinical case. Biographical details have been altered to protect confidentiality.

She is a vibrant and stormy teenager, raised by her grandparents. She never knew her father and was 8 years old when she lost her mother to cancer.

Now, she sits in front of me at the clinic, silent.

After a few minutes, she says, "Granny went into surgery today."

"And how are you feeling?" I ask.

She shrugs. "I'm just occupied with all the chores I'll have to do until she recovers."

"What chores, for example?"

"You know. Cooking. Cleaning. Doing the laundry," she replies offhandedly.

"Granny does many things for you."

"But she always complains. At least now I won't need to hear her complain."

We sit in silence for a while, listening to the absence.

"You think I'm heartless, don't you? That she is in surgery and I only care about the chores?" "I don't think you're heartless. I think perhaps it's easier and safer to think about that than to worry about her," I respond.

She pauses. It seems as though her mind is floating off somewhere else.

"I didn't cry when it happened, you know?" she suddenly says, and I feel as though we've leapt through time, and am not sure where we've landed. "There were so many people in the house, and I was cheerful, playing with my cousins. But then my grandmother came over to me and said, Are you not sad? Your mother died'"

I feel a rush of sadness come over me—and sense it is the sadness she is not allowing herself to feel. The deep sadness that immediately transmutes into indifference or anger.

"That extremely young girl, who had just lost her mother, was allowing herself to play for a while. That doesn't mean you weren't sad," I say.

"I don't remember if I felt sadness or not. But I do remember the guilt. And I've been feeling guilty ever since," she says. Her tone seems to be opening up a bit.

"What if we could go back in time and you had another chance to respond to Granny's scolding? What would that little girl say back to Granny?" I ask, inviting her to write it down. She takes the blank sheet of paper and pen I offer her, and writes.

When she's done, she lifts her eyes from the page and looks at me. There is a different look in her eyes now. It is the look of an 8-year-old orphan.

"Now imagine you, as you are now—older, smarter, braver—visiting that house on that day, seeing that young girl. You sit next to her, and you talk to her. What would you say to her?" I invite her to write that dialogue down.

When she finishes, I ask her to circle the sentence that touches her the most from either piece of writing. She does, then reads aloud:

"If you look hard enough, you will see my sadness."

We let the words hang in the air for a while.

Then, I break the silence: "You know... even now, when you sit here and talk about the chores you'll have to do while Granny is in the hospital, I can see your sadness."

I ask her if she wants to write something for her grandmother.

"I wouldn't know what to say."

"How about dedicating a song to her?" I suggest.

"You are the sunshine of my life," she says immediately, then laughs. "I don't know where that came from."

"I don't know either," I say, and ask if it would be okay if we play the song. As we listen we follow the lyrics together on the screen:

"You are the sunshine of my life

That's why I'll always be around

You are the apple of my eye

Forever you'll stay in my heart

I feel like this is the beginning

Though I've loved you for a million years

And if I thought our love was ending

I'd find myself drowning in my own tears

You are the sunshine of my life…

You must have known that I was lonely

Because you came to my rescue

And I know that this must be heaven

How could so much love be inside of you?

You are the sunshine of my life

That's why I'll always stay around

You are the apple of my eye

Forever you'll stay in my heart…"

Her eyes sparkle as she listens to the song.

"She really rescued me," she says quietly, almost to herself. "I don't know what I would do without her."