EVEN A PSYCHOLOGIST NEEDS A PSYCHOLOGIST

I looked into the little girl's eyes. In it, I caught a glimpse of fear clouded in tears.

"Don't worry. Everything would be fine."

I tried to assure her, as my job as a child psychologist requires. I had been called in by the police to handle the girl, as her mum got rushed to the Emergency unit.

"Will mummy die? Will daddy go to prison? What will happen to me? Who will......!"

I gently placed my hand over her lips to stop her too many questions. I know that is bad but it was best for her and me. 

Yes, me! Her questions are pulling back memories of my childhood from the deepest pit of my heart. 

Twenty years ago, I was just like her. Same age, same questions. Although I looked skinny as a six-year-old compared to her chubby self, still the fears were the same. 

I remember how Dad had kicked mum in the stomach just like her dad did to her mum a few hours before. The only difference between the two events was that my dad wasn't drunk when he did it. 

On a cold night, he had gotten angry over something mum had said. Usually, he was used to hitting mum but that night, he didn't stop. Even when mum laid on the floor holding her tummy with hurts and tears, she didn't cry out. She never does. 

She believed it was bad of her as a wife to call the attention of the neighbors when dad "corrected her". Who the heck calls domestic violence a correction? 

 Dad corrected her with kicks like the one John Cena, my favorite wrestler, do give his erring opponents. I knew something was wrong when mum stopped struggling on the floor. She wasn't clinging to her tummy and everywhere else Dad's kick touched her. 

I didn't know at the time what the sad reality was. All I knew was that Dad shooed me in. Visitors came the next day. Lots of them, to listen to Daddy explain to them that mum had fallen from the staircase. 

I knew it wasn't so but I didn't talk. I knew they would take dad away if they know that mum died from violence. I wish they had done an autopsy but Dad insisted that mum should be buried that morning. 

" Are you the social worker?" 

The doctor's words pulled me back from my bitter thoughts. The weird look on the doctor's face reminded me that I was holding the little girl too closely and that I had tears in my eyes. 

"She is fine now. She lost a lot of blood but she is conscious now. "

He said and went back to the room. 

I held the girl tight again. Looking her in the eyes this time. 

"You are a lucky baby girl. Mum is fine." 

I wanted to tell her how lucky she is that she won't grow up with aches and nightmares like me. I also wanted to remind her to be grateful that she won't grow up to be a child psychologist who will be tending the children's mental issues in a way to relieve herself of her childhood pain. 

But no. Not today.

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