Dear Diary,
This year I'm working with a feral five-year-old -- a little boy who was adopted after living in what his counselor called "a foster home factory". The little boy suffers from separation anxiety so extreme that he's unable to leave his parents in the morning, unable to separate from his teacher after kindergarten, and unable to release my hand at the bus each afternoon. He needs constant reassurance about everything we encounter in the course of a normal day -- that I'll be waiting right outside the bathroom door, that I'll help him hang his backpack on a high hook, that I'll be with him on the playground, that it's only two hours and five minutes until he sees his mom again. Despite his separation anxiety, the little boy has a habit of running away. Yesterday I spent fifteen minutes following him cautiously through the halls of the school as he looked wildly for an escape. Whenever I got too close, he would cringe and sob, jerking away. I followed at a safe distance, talking in the same low, soothing voice I use with wild animals. "Come on. It's okay. Come here, buddy." He took my hand only when another staff member scared him by stopping to say hello. He darted away from her, hiding behind me and squeezing my hand like a lifeline. Once we'd returned to the classroom, he settled in to a game of Connect Four as if nothing had happened.
Working with this boy is like riding a roller coaster without a seatbelt. I come home with whiplash every night, often close to tears. Nothing could be worse than the day last week when he ran away and I couldn't find him. I have never felt such sick, blind panic in my entire life. I had put him in line with my other students, turned away for a second to talk to a little girl, and when I turned back he was gone. "Where's Hunter?" I asked the other kids. They responded with blank looks. "Who?" asked one girl. I ran to the nearby classrooms, calling for help from the two kindergarten aides. I checked every exit, every closet, every bathroom. I called his name quietly and calmly, while my heart dropped to my stomach and pounded sickly. My mind immediately leapt ahead to what I would tell his mom, or what it would be like to find him in the parking lot, crushed by a school bus. I finally found him hiding behind a bookcase, pressed against a window, looking for his teacher. I was never so glad to follow cautiously behind him, coaxing him back into line. Later on, I put my head down in the office and cried.
This boy has a habit of stealing, of lying, of lashing out violently when bored or surprised. His mom regularly responds with, "I've never seen that at home!" Our department will start pricing leashes and straightjackets.