A Somewhat Unorthodox Therapy
“Would you like to check out my toys, Cody?” I asked the small boy clinging shyly to his mother.
“Fuck yes!” he replied, already moving toward the sand tray.
And there it was: the Presenting Problem. This cherubic six year old was brought to therapy by his embarrassed mother because of his potty mouth, which was causing problems socially, at home and at school — many trips to the principal’s office. The nuns were not amused, other parents were scandalized and his little brother was now beginning to mimic him. His parents had tried spankings, time outs, soaping his mouth and many heated lectures. Cody was impervious to all of it.
Since it was apparent that punishing him for using these exciting, forbidden words was not having the desired effect, I decided on a different approach.
First, I explained to the little boy that, even though grownups say these words, they don’t like it when kids do, so smart kids learn not to swear around adults. I wondered if he got into trouble a lot. He glumly agreed this was the case. I then proposed an agreement between the two of us: in my office, he could use these words as much as he liked, but only in my office. If he was able to do that, I would have a small gift for him each week, as it’s a hard habit to break and he should be rewarded for his efforts. We shook hands on it.
When Cody came in the following Friday, his mother reported that he hadn’t gone to the principal’s office once that week. I had a reward on hand, a pack of sugarless gum. I then introduced him to my tape recorder and showed him how he could put all the bad words in there for safe keeping. He was curious to try it out, so we switched the recorder on and I encouraged him to say all the swear words he knew.
“Fuck, damn, hell, shit, penis….uh…uh, fuck!” When he ran out of words, I rewound the tape and played it back to him. He smiled happily. I explained that the bad words could stay in the recorder so he could listen any time he wanted, and he could add more words, too, provided that he did not use these words anywhere else. This became our treatment model: every week for six weeks, Cody barreled into my office, and, brushing past me, ran to the tape recorder to play back previous recordings and add some new words. He then claimed his reward. Although he sometimes scribbled profanities on the drawings we did together, outside of the therapy office, his behavior was exemplary. His parents were relieved and thankful; they thought I had worked a miracle. It was time to terminate.
We were approaching the Christmas holidays when Cody’s mom brought him in for our last session. He handed me a nicely wrapped and beribboned gift, and Mom explained that he’d signed the card himself. He listened once more to his tapes, with a fond smile, and gave me a big hug at the end of the hour. Mom thanked me profusely.
After they left, I opened Cody’s Christmas card. There was a nice note from his mother, and, at the bottom of the card, Cody had printed in block letters:
Merry Christmas. Love, Cody, Fuck you.
