What would you change in your family?

There is not a lot of joy living in my parents' house

He said straight away before I had a chance to start our counselling session. " Isn't it?" I was taken back: "I thought your parents send you here because they care..."

"They don't understand me," he cut me out: "Drugs are my way out, they are fascinating cause they change my consciousness."

" What is your first childhood memory?" I asked him suddenly imagined him as a little child.

"The smell of the forest and my father holding me tight, he died when I was very young." He closed his eyes and I let him to reflect but suddenly he opened his eyes again.

"I still smell this forest when the needle slid into my arm, a bizzare awesome calm, it's in your blood, moving towards your brain..."

"Your body may fall apart," I whispered, quietly in sudden silence, but he doesn't hear me. "I am stoned, I am high, I am above and below law and reality."

Another client. She entered the room quietly. "Are you okey?" I asked her gently and she murmured under her breath.

"I am so relaxed, opiates help me to live in a never ending dream. I am in a mystical place, very little that's negative gets through me."

"Tell me about your family," I nudged her quietly. "There is nothing to tell," she shrugged and closed in.

"I can imagine you as a beautiful child with a big smile," I suddenly heard myself to say.

"Where I come from all girls had to be beautiful and obedient." She bit her lip painfully and closed her eyes again.

Another client, another day. "Why do I take drugs, hmm, let me think?" He winked at me: "Cause I can do more things with grass."

"And what about your family?" I asked suddenly. "What about them?" He threw the question at me back: "They just don't understand."

"What is your best childhood memory?" I tried again. "Swimming together in our family pool,"

his eyes moistured with a sweet memory, "We had some good times together."

"You had to be a good swimmer?" I smiled at him encouragingly. "Swam as a fish, my mum even gave me blue bedsheets so I pretend to swim in my cot too."

"What happened then?" I asked again. "I stopped swimming, I lost my confidence," he bit his nail: "Blue sheets turned red with blood, but with grass everything happens naturally I can get into the kiss, believe in innocent touch again... "

"There were always too many rules in my family," another client said to me. "What do you mean by rules?"

" Too many eyes to watch over you, neighbours living just behind the wall, hearing everything and your parents commenting endlessly on your behaviour..."

"They are just worried about you," I tried to say but he jumped in: "About what, about those few drinks ?"

"Why do you drink?" "Why, I guess everything is unconstrained, there is not as many social barriers placed on me, I do what I want to do..."

"I need to escape," another client made his point clear. "Escape from what?" I asked quietly.

"Escape from everything, from our conflicts, our family, LSD can do it for me."

I watched my last client to leave our counselling room for a day thinking about their issues with drug use.

The first thing to be aware of is that only a minority of people using any drug, except nicotine, develop serious problems with their use.

People developing problematic use who end up in drug treatment are often faced with social deprivation, drug law enforcement practices and availability....

They are often rejected by mainstream and seek active emulation and admiration from like minded peers...

They start to use drugs at an early age, often have no social competence,  they suffer from personal disorders and psychological distress or trauma from childhood....

What about their family? Are they left behind? Some of them complain of no relationships with their family and some of overly authoritarian or neglect parent...AND YET NONE OF THEM FEEL THAT THEIR FAMILY LET THEM DOWN

"There is not a lot of joy in raising my son,"

her plaintive eyes

said it all,

knowingly

patting her arm,

the words came out

of my mouth

repeated

so many times

to overstressed parents,

whose children

I had

in my class.

"Do not give up,

never give up

on your children,

being born

in different shapes

and sounds,

no one can predict

who we greet

when time comes."

She nodded,

but I knew,

she didn't hear me,

"Impulsive and narcisstic

was my little one,

from the first time

I hold him in my arms,"

she was lost in her past:

"I ignored his tantrums,

and him as well,

you know,

his father left me,

when he was just two and half,

but what I really need to ask,

is my child act impulsively

because of his ADHD?"

"It is not easy to raise a child

on your own,

especially sons

they crave

to have their dads around."

I smiled at her encouragingly.

Another teacher-parents' meeting,

another mum,

"She was beautiful,

she was mine,

I was on the top of the world,

holding that soft pink skin

looking in her angelic eyes,

that tiny miniature of me,"

her eyes moistured

with memories of love.

"Never needed to scold her too much,

never really went on my nerves,

but now

I am just

too tired

to look after my autistic child."

I nodded and she closed her eyes.

For a change,

both parents

entered

our school,

hand in hand:

"Then we noticed

something else

in our five years old,

still,

were not ready

to admit,

there is something wrong,"

the father told me

and his wife just sighed,

"He was

just,

suddenly,

hard to control,

often hostile to us

and everyone else."

"There are many professionals

to help,

you are not

the only one,

having

severely

misbehaving

child."

I gestured at them

to follow me

to see the full classes

of students

lacking basic social skills.

There was a student

with conduct disorder,

screaming on the top of his lungs:

"Screw you and your game,

whatever you tell me,

I am not going to do."

They looked at each other

reminded,

suddenly,

of their son.

When we passed the classroom,

one more time,

the student settled down,

enjoying the game

he refused to play.

This time they smiled

at each other,

there was hope in their eyes.

Then an young mum

rushed through the school gate,

from distance

I noticed

her pale face,

her nervous eyes

darting around

she finally said:

"My child looks normal,

there is really nothing wrong with him,

not like that,"

she pointed at a student in a wheelchair,

"He is just growing up

without showing emotion,

remorse or empathy."

"What do you mean by that?"

I quietly asked.

"He likes to lie,

not just avoid punishment,

as all children will,

but for any reason

or none."

She shrugged and took a cigarete out.

I pointed at the 'no smoking' sign

but she just kept puffing away

and talking at once:

"If I cry and tell him,

he hurted my feelings,

he just doesn't care.

He just have to have

what he wants.

If he gets it,

he chooses not to be cruel,

but at the end of the day,

he will do whatever works best,

he has already killed his friend's pet,

just a tiny guinea pig,

cause he was told to hand it back..."

"Are you going to ignore it?"

I asked looking her straight into eyes.

"Ignore what, it was just a guinea pig after all?"

"Those traits of antisocial behaviour,

you told me about,

or are you going to confront the problem

to help your child to change the course?"

"No one can tell me

if my son has personality disorder,

they just say,

that his brain is still developing

that the normal behaviour

up to teenager's years

can be misinterpreted

as psychopathic,

do I want my son be diagnozed

with disorder

been considered

untreatable?"

Suddenly she came close to me

and the cigarette's smoke filled my lungs,

I started to cough

while she resolutely shook her head:

"No way, forget it."

"I admire your attitude,

but smoking

is really forbidden,

here,"

I took the cigarete from her hand,

while she continued.

"I have read on internet,

the capacity of empathy,

which is controlled

by specific parts of the brain,

might still exist

weakly

in my son

and could be strengthened,

I have to hope that's true,

I have to be patient,

I want to believe it is true."

Her eyes shone expectantly

and I desperately wanted

to give her

only positive news.

"He may grow up from it

in his late teens,

the experts say.

He will learn to pacify the rough waters,

learning to control

himself

from outside in."

I quietly said and she beamed

waving at me:

"I'll bring him in,

straight away tomorrow,

I'll bring him in."

Looking after her

I remembered

what she was not told,

that some of these children

just develop a larger skill set

of manipulation.

They know how to get what they want.

'The callous-unemotional child',

was written under Kyle's name,

opening the new student's file,

her son's diagnosis

suddenly obvious,

and something else

added in neat handwriting:

'respond to reward

far more than punishment,

what you will notice first

is the manipulativeness

that he is showing.'

'The cold-blooded behaviours

low levels of cortisol

and below-normal function

in the amygdala,

the portion of the brain

that processes fear

and shame...'

I studied his condition,

that no one else at the school had.

'The callous-unemotional kids

don't feel

uncomfortable,

don't develop

the same aversion

to punishment

or to the experience

of hurting someone..'

I read more thinking

about his young mum

and her determination

to help him out.

Why some callous-unemotional children

grow up to be

deeply troubled adults

while others do not?

I asked myself

and the answer lied just in front of me...

"What would you change in your family,

if you had a chance?"

"Nothing,

I have a new boyfriend

who helps me with Kyle,

his father was just a 'ratbag',

but look,"

she pulled up a sleeve up on her blouse,

name of her son was tattooed on her arm,

" You can't wash it out,

family is forever,

Kyle will be fine,

Kyle is my son."