Words by Jessica Kate // illustration by Ciel Chen
Edges curling, image gently fading as it’s exposed day after day to the harsh, afternoon sunlight, the picture rests in its home on the wall. Situated next to the desk, it’s right at eye level, impossible to miss.
You sit at that desk daily, next to the picture on the wall.
The deluge of emails flooding your inbox forces breath out through your teeth in a rush. As though the force of the incoming requests has its own energy and can expel air from your very soul. Some of them are spam, easy to remove and ignore – albeit still a task to complete. Many however, are more complex.
“Just a reminder that…”
“An update on the incident from last week…”
“Your appointment time is set for…”
“Therapy invoice #546 is now due…”
“Upcoming Webinar: Avoiding Burnout…”
The desk groans under the weight of your upper body as you rest your head in your hands and prepare to answer the horde. Will it splinter and break? Will the mass of all those emails one day escape the inbox and crumble the desk into dust?
You sit at that desk daily, next to the picture on the wall.
The tiny, pixelated screen of your telehealth appointment reflects the wall behind the desk. The picture isn’t visible from this angle, but the bookshelves are. Once, they were full of leather-bound adventures, creased paperbacks rescued from airport magazine racks, and brightly coloured holiday reads with happy endings and swoonworthy moments. Gradually their shelves were infiltrated by books with squishy, newborn faces on the cover, or rose-tinted toddler cheeks, adorned with helpful titles or bullet point lists of contents.
Then the ranks were again conquered…
This time by large, complex volumes often written by people with “Dr.” in front of their names, or, “Psychologist” after it. Tomes promising help: a guaranteed lifeline for all who consumed the contents.
It’s hard to recognise a lifeline, designed to buoy you up, when thoughts of its existence drown you in resentment and guilt.
You sit at that desk daily, next to the picture on the wall.
Sometimes, the desk is a refuge. Respite after battle. A bunker to retreat to under heavy fire. When your personal shields and armour aren’t strong enough to withstand the torrent of tears, or the sounds of the battle your child is fighting against themselves, in an environment so hostile you can’t help them. A treacherous place, one’s mind.
The desk provides solace, a space for your weary head to rest – leaning heavily on its smooth, laminated surface. A place for you to sit, bone-tired but too encumbered by responsibility to retire just yet. A place for you to stare at that picture, and those around it, and plead with it to remain strong in its place on the wall.
You sit at that desk daily, next to the picture on the wall.
The desk houses a computer screen, constantly filled with more tabs than its width should logically allow. There are jokes online about this. Too many tabs open, too many thoughts, scattered brains and ‘organised chaos’. You laugh along with them when they arise, face tight and smile not quite reaching your eyes. You feel the muscles in your body tense as though preparing for a fight, each time someone jokes about the way minds work. It’s a small, easy jump to make, from a comment about tabs in a mind, to “everyone is diagnosed these days” or, “we’re all a little on the spectrum, aren’t we?” And so, you wait. You hold your breath, and you prepare to fend off the invalidation from whomever you’re speaking to, and whatever they’re about to say. Their nonchalance and ignorant words are knives piercing and breaking your heart. They isolate you and your child once more and force you into a corner labelled “misunderstood”, “too much” or “not enough.”
And they don’t even realise they’re doing it.
You sit at that desk daily, next to the picture on the wall.
Often the desk is where you sit, as you contemplate and plan for the future. Your paid employment has finished for the day, but the real work has just begun. While others discuss playdates, or ride to the local park, or a new trend for lunchbox snacks – you’re paying therapy bills, reading reports and assessments, finding new allied health providers, or emotionally co-regulating with your child who is in a constant state of survival, regardless of what others see. Often the desk is where you sit as you reflect on the screaming and crying you witnessed as soon as the car door closed in the school’s car park. Your child’s armour finally permitted to slip off as they are surrounded by the safety of your presence. The battle moves from within, to the equally intangible space between your bodies, taking the form of shouted words, irrational requests, shaking, clammy hands and tears that burn trails down both your faces, all the way home. It’s all you can try and do to hold the space, protect your child from the invisible enemy, to flood that car with love, tranquillity and understanding.
Every. Single. Day.
You sit at that desk daily, next to the picture on the wall.
That picture is the real lifeline. Its edges might be curled, and its image beginning to fade, but the strength it gives you is worth more than everything else combined. It’s not alone on the wall. There are other pictures, and some photos too. Together, they energize you, redirect you to the course you need, and hold you up when it feels like everything is trying to pull you down.
The picture is simple. Crafted in wide-tipped marker and grey-lead pencil. There is a yellow sun, in a blue sky, filled with fluffy clouds. The grass is green – if a little uneven, but then again, detail is difficult to achieve with Crayola washables. The focus of the picture is four shakily drawn figures. They’re all smiling, and they’re close together. Two are large, one is much smaller. The middle-sized one has the most detail, and you can feel the sense of safety and security radiating from that tiny, crudely drawn figure – and especially from its tiny, but specifically placed heart.
It’s a picture of your family. Drawn by that middle-sized child, who you’d do anything for, and who you’ve spent so many hours at that desk thinking about. That picture is full of the love, the belonging and the acceptance they so clearly feel when safe within your family unit. It oozes out of every carefully drawn line. It’s that picture you turn to daily; to remind you, to support you, to revive you and to reward you.
You sit at that desk daily, next to the picture on the wall.
