Learning Curves

(written October 14th, 2008)

I was staffed with a five year-old boy at work the other day (I shall simply refer to him as "D"). Little D is hospitalized for "unmanageable" and "unsafe" behaviors. Some of these behaviors include aggression ---to himself and others. He also suffers from perseverations---he becomes fixated on electronic devices: fire alarms, light fixtures, sprinkler heads, and electrical outlets. On this particular day, D is obsessed with his nightlight. Nightlights on the psychiatric unit are secured behind a sheet of Plexiglas, which is secured to the wall with a metal frame and four industrial screws. D is trying to pry the metal frame off. He has successfully popped out two screws, and is now attempting to rip the remaining metal.

D wedges his tiny fingers between the frame and the Plexiglas, giving a strong tug. The frame snaps back towards the wall, pinching D's hand. He howls in pain and yells at the light fixture, "you bitch!" D attempts again, and again the metal frame snaps back, hitting his fingers. He cries, and then tries a third time. Snap! Over and over, D tries to remove the cover, and he continually fails. His fingers begin to bruise.

D is unique is his perseverance. The repeat injuries…they should cue the kid to give up. In fact, researchers have examined this in great detail (they term the learning process "operant conditioning"). In one study, a man named Martin Seligman subjected dogs to electrical shocks. Sometimes the dogs were provided with a "trap door," a way to escape the aversive shocks. Other pooches weren't so lucky---they were given shocks regardless of their behavior. In a later phase of the experiment, all the dogs were given a possible escape route. Those who had learned to escape did so. But the poor dogs in the second group, they just lay down and accepted the shocks. Martin termed this phenomenon "learned helplessness." He ascertained that it applied to humans as well, claiming it is the cause of many "motivation problems." Students fail in school, and never believe they can succeed. The heartbroken can use "learned helplessness" to explain their frequent, awkward social encounters. We are---supposedly---incapable of improving.

I continue to watch D as he steadfastly dismantles his nightlight. Despite the futility of his plight, and his resultant injuries, it is endearing to see. D certainly is not afraid to get hurt; in fact, he seems oblivious to the risks involved. I smile.

With tearstained cheeks, D turns to me and asks, "you bitch, why aren't you helping me?!"