Part 3- Conclusion: Circle of Wounds

Monday’s Mindful Moments are an invitation to contemplate the human journey of life with me. My wish is that these writings ignite a spark of thoughtful intention as you welcome this new week. With all my love & gratitude, Chelsea

I think back to this memory now. The car incident almost 30 years later. I think of cancel culture and what a behavior like this would mean today. I don't dare run through the what-ifs.

Instead, I move towards the impulsivity of an underdeveloped brain. The prefrontal cortex is the part of the brain that assists with the pros and cons of decision-making. I think about how this part of the brain does not reach full maturity until the age of 25 years old. I think of young, dumb kids navigating this world with the underdeveloped part of brain that helps with things like planning, prioritizing, and making intelligent choices.

I think about parents and how we spend our lives trying to protect our children, running the tape through, accessing this part of the brain repeatedly. I appreciate how beautiful it is witness a child’s developmental growth. I send my gratitude to every adult who helps strengthen this part of the brain through their patience, mentoring and connection.

I think of the kids less lucky. The ones who don’t have supportive adults assisting them with running the tape through and how painful it is to see the lifelong consequences of a lack of awareness, impulsivity and the double risk of untreated developmental wounds and trauma that compounds these already vulnerable developing brains.

It reminds me of my time working with severely emotionally gang kids in a lockdown facility where the culture and dynamics of the environment reinforced what was okay and what was not okay. I remember my job as a Therapeutic Behavioral Specialist in my 20s. Fresh out of college, thin, cute with platinum blonde hair and straight Betty Paige bangs. Young, often wearing Creeper shoes, a studded belt, black pants and a nice shirt tucked in. 5’8 and all of 123 lbs. Cute and professional enough given my job in a locked down facility working directly with severely emotionally disturbed, abused, gang kids recently let out of juvenile hall.

This facility was split. Half the ward had girls and the other half had boys. In the middle between all the locked doors was a cafeteria where the boys and girls ate at different times. Each ward had a few padded rooms designated for kids who had been restrained for being dangerous to themselves or others and each had hall had a designated as a classroom. Outside was a basketball court contained by a chain linked fence with barb wire. This was the court where I would learn to play sports often getting pelted in the face with a ball. It hurt but I didn’t care. Sports was a shortcut to connection and being tough was necessary if I had a chance at making any difference in my new role.

I recall my first day at this job. I introduced myself to the kid who I’d hardly describe as a kid since he was over 6 feet tall and looked more like a man. “Hello, I’m Chelsea and I will be helping you.” He replied instantly with a smile and these words. “Great! You can start helping me by getting on your knees and sucking my dick.” The group of boys that surrounded him burst out laughing.

And though I was terrified on the inside, I too was quick witted. “Well,” I said, “That isn’t the type of help they pay me for but it’s a pleasure to meet you.” My brain was flooded with fear that I’d be attacked or raped. But the fear was outweighed with determination and that is what kept me showing up day after day. I had no idea how to be a Therapeutic Behavioral Specialist but I knew what it was like to be a pissed off kid.

I witnessed the raw behaviors of these teens I directly worked day after day. One kid I worked with would smear his own feces on the classroom door to avoid going to school. A girl who I worked with would piss off the other kids with her obnoxious off handed comments and was once stabbed with a pencil by another kid. I was sitting next her trying to get her to knock off the s**t talking when that happened. Needless to say the pencil stab put an end to that. I can recall fights randomly breaking out and kids being carried off by staff into padded rooms where they would yell and scream and throw themselves into the walls.

I remember the cafeteria where the choice was some sort of awful hot entree or 2 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. One of the boys I worked with ate 6 peanut butter and jelly sandwiches everyday, two for each meal. He was too paranoid to eat any other food and I can’t say I could blame him.

I recall the countless files I read specific to each kid I was assigned to. The worst kids where the ones who got someone like me to work one-on-one with them. These were the kids that risked going back to juvenile hall if they failed placement here. I eventually stopped reading these files. They were all the same with some sort of abuse but with unique nuances. Histories of neglect, sexual abuse, physical abuse, witness to violence. Some where born addicted to substances. Others had been sold for sex by their own parents. Awful human behavior inflicted by those who brought them into this world and were supposed to love and protect them. Innocent beings who would be robbed from innocence immediately upon their entrance into this world. Kids who didn’t deserve abuse, neglect, mentally ill parents, yet born to survive would learn to protect themselves in the only ways they knew how…….

I reflect on those kids underdeveloped, traumatized brains and think of the risk of my own safety jeopardized 40 hours a week, 8 hours a day. I remember the feeling of being in danger in that lockdown facility, but I also remember understanding the natural consequences that occurred rooted in the animalistic part of the brain. I understood it and could identify with some of the reactions I would see. Though I hadn’t suffered the why they had, I understood basic feelings, reactivity and grew to understand the culture of their environment.

I worked at that job for almost a year. During this time I had 8 kids who I was successful with. That meant that 8 kids didn’t fail placement and didn’t have to go back to juvenile hall. The social workers and staff would call me in often to ask what my magic was. For that I did not have an answer other than these kids learned to trust me and then developed a loyalty to me. When this happened they would follow the advise I gave rooted in 2 simple things. Behavior and consequences. For every behavior there is either a positive or negative consequence. It was as simple as that. I became the supportive adult even though I was only a few years older, helping them form their prefrontal cortex by running the tape through over and over again.

I held firm to rewards and consequences. I advocated when their voice was not heard. I taught them how to communicate in a way that they would be heard. I collaborated with any individual on their team who would listen and more than anything, I loved each kid who I worked with. They mattered to me.

I learned about their own context of being loyal. The gang kids I worked with and the things they would do to defend their neighborhood and turf. Behaviors they would go to any length to control or deter another’s behavior. I think of the disaster of untreated trauma that comes from being a human in this world and the disaster of hurt we inflict on others.

I am still looking for a happy takeaway for this essay. I only have an opportunity to pause and utilize my own fully developed brain to conclude that being able to pause and run the tape through is now my most valuable gift.

This is a gift I practice constantly. However, it is counterintuitive to the 17-year-old girl who still resides within me. I can still fantasize about revenge. My brain gets satisfaction from all the behaviors I can do to shut down others' unwanted behavior and mitigate the impact of emotional harm. Because a fantasy is just that, something we imagine.

I know better now that to believe every thought I have. I educate others that we have an average of 40,000-60,000 thoughts per day and if we believed all of these thoughts we would all be locked up or just simply insane.

I teach behavioral choice and how to respond rather than react to every individual I work with. I drill it into my children's brains that behavior is a choice. This is a challenge when another human hurts them. I have learned how to actively calm the fire inside of my brain and body that comes when I witness their human journey that includes pain from other kids, school, and walking wounded adults that don't think about the impact of what they say or do.

I damper this fire by running that f*****g tape through. It is a process that is hard and takes time. There is no instant gratification. But I know the risk of a fire started in a dry environment, vulnerable to taking over and spreading.

I do my personal best to put that fire out in a way that aligns with the highest, most wisest part of myself. God and I have so many heart-to-heart talks. I meditate and imagine wishing this person well. I vent to my closest girlfriends. Practice compassion because we know that we are all flawed human beings. When I get stuck, I hire a helper.

Sometimes I crack and lose it, with my words. Though I elect not to say all of the words I am thinking and focus on being direct, articulate and firm. The intensity of this crack is often my last-ditch effort to put an end to the chaos, but I will go there if necessary. This confrontational behavior backfires internally with a mix of relief, satisfaction, anxiety, and inner incongruence because I am both grateful and loathe this part of myself.

I will conclude these 3 essays with this last food for thought. We are not responsible for others' behaviors. We have one thing we can control, and that, my friend, is how we respond.

Being Me with Chelsea is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.