Silence, silence, silence and a relationship
When therapy isn't found in words.
Will had been dropped off 5 minutes ago by his pastoral lead, and since then, he hadn't said a word. He had nodded twice. So that was something... Wasn't it?
I took a deep breath. I've been counselling for a while, but it's still disconcerting in talking therapies when I'm the only one talking.
Will was 15, but at this moment, knees pulled in, head dropped, fingers twisting in endless knots, he seemed nearer 11.
There was no point in asking more assessment questions; this was quickly moving to an uncomfortable interrogation, and I was starting to feel like an overbearing adult.
"Are you hating the questions as much as me?"
Will glanced up, a flicker of surprise cracking his shell.
“Hmm, so that’s a yes,” I smiled conspiratorially. “Fancy a game of something?”
A barely perceptible nod. I took it as an agreement and pulled out two balancing games.
“Jenga or Chairs?”
A small shrug. Three bits of communication in a row—I was winning... in teeny, tiny moments.
The rattle of the plastic chairs broke the silence. I animatedly explained the rules as I set up the game, filling the space without reverting to the awkward “So… how’s school?” I stuck to game-related chat only. Will never spoke. But he gasped with me when the tower wobbled, and smiled when I wailed after it collapsed on my turn.
We didn’t talk about his life, his worries, his trauma, or even his favourite colour. But he stayed, engaged, and joined me. The next step was to see if he’d come back
He came back.
I had a strong suspicion this was more about politeness than choice, but still - something.
His gaze remained downcast, shoulders rounded.
“Let’s check in,” I offered gently. “Can you tell me one good thing and one bad thing about your week?”
He recoiled. Instantly, as if it had always been part of the plan, I added;
“I’ll go first.”
I kept it deliberately light.
“My good thing was an epic strawberry doughnut from Morrisons yesterday. You can keep your fancy Krispy Kremes, Morrisons wins for me.”
A slight smile from Will.
“And a bad thing... hmm. My favourite staff member isn’t in today, so I have to talk to...” dramatic gasp “...other people.” Shudder.
A bigger smile.
“Can you think of a good thing and a bad thing?”
He immediately shook his head.
But again, a response. Another small step.
That’s when I felt it, a twinge of panic. There were still 52 minutes until the bell. Where was the therapy?
I glanced around the room and saw a small set of emotion cards, twelve faces.
“Can you choose a couple of cards that show how you’ve felt this week?”
Will looked at the cards on the coffee table. The silence stretched. He shifted slightly, the rustle of his shirt against his blazer louder than it should’ve been.
Just as I was about to save us both from the tension, he pushed two cards towards me: Frustrated and Sad.
My brain sprang into action. He had shared something. But I needed to tread gently. If he didn’t feel safe, he’d retreat.
“Hmm… frustrated and sad, eh? Sounds like a tough week.” He looked up and nodded, wary.
“Maybe a game to distract?”
He glanced at the chairs tin. “You might win this time,” I smiled.
Will was a slight boy, wiry, fast. His dad called him a whippet.
Sometimes, Will was fast enough to get away from his father’s hand.
His dad, a respected police officer, was short-tempered. He blamed stress.
Being quiet and keeping his gob shut was survival.
At school, Will used the same strategy. His skinny frame and ginger hair made him a target. He was partially protected by reputation. In Year 8, after enduring months of jabs, taunts, whispers of “squeal, it’s the pig’s son, squeal,” he finally snapped. He jumped the kid and punched him. Hard.
He was excluded for three days.
His dad had been proud. “Glad to see you’ve got something about you, son.”
Will, on the other hand, was terrified. The bloodied nose, the rush of adrenaline, his dad’s approval, it all haunted him.
The thought of becoming his father was enough to make him shrink. He worried every day. Every flicker of frustration, every clenched fist, made him fear that he was like his dad.
He was never going to talk about it. Who would believe him anyway?
But he could show Helen he felt frustrated and sad. And then play Chairs.
That was more than he’d ever had.
He held his breath as he placed his last piece onto the precarious tower, and when it didn’t fall, he punched the air.
“Winnnnnner!”
At this moment in time, it doesn’t matter that I don’t know the details of Will’s background, or even his trauma; the counselling cliches are true, it is the relationship that heals.
Creating a safe space, to simply be, to play a game, to not worry, or be hypervigilant, to share how you feel and know that is ok.
Sometimes the game is the therapy.
🍃 Reflective moment - What can you find in games: peace, excitement, connection, communication, distraction?