This morning, I went for a beautiful morning bike ride to a lovely, crystal-clear lake. I was one of only a handful of people at the lake and the only person swimming. The water was warm yet refreshing. Looking out at the view across the lake, up at the mountains as the sun rose above them, and hearing the birds chirping in the forest, I reflected on how lucky I am to be able to have this kind of experience early in the morning before my workday. As I was cycling home, enjoying the cool breeze and planning my next visit to the lake, a car suddenly appeared in the intersection (I was on a multi-use path), jutting out beyond the stop sign. I slammed on my brakes, and before I could even process what was happening, I noticed that I and my bike were upside down, and then I came crashing down to the pavement on my head. Luckily I was wearing a helmet! I also felt moisture all around me and had the fleeting thought that I was bleeding to death. I soon realized the moisture was coming from my water bottle, which had broken in the fall. In any case, I was pretty shaken, but I somehow gathered my wits, told the horrified driver that I was OK, and proceeded to continue to bike home (much to my wife’s horror as she gathered the first aid supplies after I returned home!).
Later, I told my younger son (a teenager) what had happened. Before I was even finished my story, he exclaimed “And people saw you! The worst thing about it is that people saw you!” At the time, I did briefly wonder whether anyone saw me and would stop and check if I needed help (nobody did, except the woman in the car). In talking to my son, however, I realized just how differently our brains work. Even if I was spectacle, witnessed by dozens of people, I would never think that was the worst thing about this experience. In my mind, the worst thing was that I could have broken my neck, had a serious brain injury, or damaged myself in some other way would make it hard for me to stay active. Instead, as a teenager, my younger son was focused more on the social element of the event.
I think many parents have experienced their teenagers/adolescents as almost like a different species. It’s like they have completely different brains. They often worry about and dwell on different things, interpret what we say in ways that we never would have imagined, and so forth. It’s the kiss of death to ask them open-ended questions around the dinner table about how their day was. “How was school today?” “I don’t know. Why are you asking this?” Many, but not all, don’t really seem to plan ahead, instead pursuing the more immediate goal to be accepted by their peers. They also spend an awful lot of time and energy thinking about how others are thinking of them. I think this kind of heavy-duty social focus must be exhausting for their developing brains. Yet it’s crucial that we understand what their brains are processing, how they are interpreting and understanding the world, and what is important to them, if we want to have any hope to connect, support or help.
I could view my son’s worry about other people seeing me as a profound lack of concern about my well-being. After all, he never actually asked if I was OK (maybe he took that as a given, as I seemed OK, wasn’t limping, falling over or talking gibberish, and was making my lunch and chatting with him like I normally do). Alternatively, I could try to understand that he has a different brain than I do, and that one of my jobs is to understand that brain so that I can be as supportive and helpful as possible. I think the same is true whether you’re a therapist, a loved one, a teacher, or anyone trying to support or help anyone, teenager or not. ~Alexander L. Chapman, Ph.D., R.Psych.