Slippery.
You just take a fucking beating. Sad cases coming in and out the door, doing what you can to help, as soon as they leave, the nosey boss steps in and asks a bazillion questions trying to stick her finger on the point that says "we shouldn't be helping so much" people in the community who think they're doing good and just dress you down over the phone. "Yes well I just think that you shouldn't name the program adopt a family because in my family the word adopt connotates forever because both of our sons are adopted you know and yes I would like to make a donation but we want a family with a girl because my son always wants the toys I get if there is a boy."
And all you can do is stare at your wall that is still empty from having just started, mouth agape, blinking.
Someone take the crazy-pills out of my reach.
I find myself trodding on a razor thin line that separates stand-offishness from professional inquiry. I don't want to prod and pry into the situations that caused my clients to get where they are today, but in a sense it's my job to do so. I know that part of case work is counseling, but I have a hard time doing it. That's an understatement; so far I haven't been doing it. I can't accurately describe the trepidation that occurs when a 30 year old mother who had her first child at the age of 13 and has had 7 more since is asking me if I have $40 to help get the gas back on. Or when her sons come in the next day for bus vouchers because they need to get to classes and mom's truck just broke down. Yes I'm absolutely sure there's a history there. And that some terrible decisions have been made. But how do I begin the process with this woman, how do I how do I how do I. I vow to spend more time with the next client on these things. I have to, not just to satisfy the requirements of the job, but to satisfy the requirements of myself.
I feel like there are three hundred thousand things that need doing here, and here I sit typing away at my blog. In-breath. Out-breath.
And all you can do is stare at your wall that is still empty from having just started, mouth agape, blinking.
Someone take the crazy-pills out of my reach.
I find myself trodding on a razor thin line that separates stand-offishness from professional inquiry. I don't want to prod and pry into the situations that caused my clients to get where they are today, but in a sense it's my job to do so. I know that part of case work is counseling, but I have a hard time doing it. That's an understatement; so far I haven't been doing it. I can't accurately describe the trepidation that occurs when a 30 year old mother who had her first child at the age of 13 and has had 7 more since is asking me if I have $40 to help get the gas back on. Or when her sons come in the next day for bus vouchers because they need to get to classes and mom's truck just broke down. Yes I'm absolutely sure there's a history there. And that some terrible decisions have been made. But how do I begin the process with this woman, how do I how do I how do I. I vow to spend more time with the next client on these things. I have to, not just to satisfy the requirements of the job, but to satisfy the requirements of myself.
I feel like there are three hundred thousand things that need doing here, and here I sit typing away at my blog. In-breath. Out-breath.
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