The Courage to Talk
Meagan did go to school this morning. I wondered if she would. I came home from work around 8:30 and she’d showered and gone already. I was upstairs writing an hour later when there came a thump on the front door. I opened it to find my girl in tears on the front porch.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she sobbed, lip quivering. “I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. I can’t go on like this. Sorry, Dad. Please don’t be mad.”
She looked so completely dejected, Ms J. How could I be angry? I invited her in and she removed her coat and boots. She talked about her struggle this morning with a crowded streetcar and with the mob at school who ignored her. She felt the sudden weight of all her cares and all her fears. And she was completely crushed by it. There was more to her story, I suspected. Much more.
“Come on, Sweetie,” I said softly. “Let’s sit down. Talk to me. I promise to listen.”
And so we did. She sat on the chesterfield in the living room, her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed. From time to time, tears dripped from her nose and she wiped them with the back of her hand.
“I don’t know anyone here. I miss my friends. I miss my family. I’m scared here, Dad. I don’t feel like this is my home. I can’t live with RJ and I can’t live with Mum. And now you’re telling me I have to grow up and get used to it here, but I can’t. I can’t just do it like that. I have no home. That’s how it feels. It feels like I have no home and no friends. I’m lost, Dad. I'm totally lost.”
She began again to sob and I cried too, dammit. My heart was breaking to see her this way.
“Meagan,” I said, “I’m like a new dad. I don’t know how to be a dad to a girl I barely know. I only know that I love you and I want to get to know you. I’m sorry for the way I behaved on Saturday. If you’ll try to meet me halfway ... If we can find a way to work together, maybe we can survive this. I only want you to be happy, Honey. I want you to grow and be happy.”
There was no sound then for a long while, just the intermittent sniffles of a girl whose Hope had nearly gone.
“Would you be open to talking to someone about what you’re feeling?” I said at last. “A councillor or somebody? Maybe we could both go. Would you like to try that?”
She nodded her head.
“Yeah, maybe. But not with you. That’s just too weird.”
The door is open, Ms J. The way is made clear for us. Both of us.
Please Lord, don’t let me fuck it up.
***
Mused by Dale @ 3:00 pm
At 4 February 2008 at 20:08, 
Anvilcloud said...
At 5 February 2008 at 04:54, Remi said...
2 Comments:
I remember turning 15, moving from one province to another, changing from urban to semi-rural, and changing school systems. It wasn't easy. It's harder for some than others, and it's hard for M. I wish you both well.
It's moments like these that make me glad my teen years are behind me. While we live in a culture that fetishizes the image of youth, the reality is that it's far tougher than what we remember.
I always laugh about how much I thought I knew back then. I love the Dylan line "But I was so much older then / I'm younger than that now" and the truth that it holds.
That's where a lot of the problem lies, though. Age may take a lot of things away, but it does give you perspective. It takes perspective to realize that things will get better. That a new school will soon become old hat.
I don't know if I have anything constructive to add, aside from the fact that I hope and feel that things can turn out okay. It's just going to take time. At least she is willing to talk now. That's a big step.
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