I’m nine, riding my bike at night along the rocky shoulder of Highway 35 in Angleton, Texas. I’ve dropped the food I was dispatched to fetch, and I’m panicking.
The moments in which we learn may appear unremarkable to the casual observer. Along that dark highway, I don’t know if any passersby saw my predicament. And if they did, I doubt they realized what I was realizing:
No one is coming to save me.
The misadventure began in a house full of unsupervised kids. I was the second youngest (my then-six-year-old sister was there too). Some were old enough to drive. As with many of my stories, the parents were away. Mother was out with her boyfriend, and some of those other kids were to become our step-siblings.
They and some neighborhood children ponied up some cash and sent me to a burger stand beside 35. I’d taken the job excitedly, as it was after dark, and this was a new stunt among many that would follow. Little Brian had no business riding that far in the dark to that location.
I doubt that what I ordered bore much resemblance to what the people back in the house expected. The real problem began, however, when I tried to carry food bags while steering a bicycle.
The food crashed to the ground, strewn among the rocks, and my eyes darted around to see who would fix this for me.
No one is coming to save me.
I tried to gather myself as headlights and engine sounds blazed by. Tears welled up in my eyes. I’d gone from feeling important and bold to wishing I could disappear.
No one is coming to save me.
I did the only thing I could: I picked up the food, gathered the bags more securely, and managed to carry them while gripping the handlebars. Back at the house, no one knew what happened. Sure, some grumbled about the state of the food and the order errors. Still, bellies awaited food, and food I had.
The lesson, that no one was going to save me, was reinforced countless times in the ensuing years.
No one is coming to save me or you. I’m not going to. PLACE is not going to. The work of saving yourself is incumbent upon you. That’s the tough reality of post-estrangement life.
That said, the good news is that we are with you, to support you, to hear you, and to hold space for you in our own broken hearts. Carl Rogers, a psychologist who helped create humanistic psychology, believed that the most important aspect of helping a patient is the therapist-patient relationship. He spoke about it in terms of genuineness, congruence, and empathic understanding. I’m proud to say that in our PLACE, you can experience all of those. No one is coming to save you or me, but we can stand together as we do the work of saving ourselves.
