Ugh

I have a client right now who is hell-spawn. I've had her for the longest, close to four months. She gets away with murder. The things she does have gotten other clients terminated long before. My boss's boss finally decided a few weeks ago that we were giving her a final deadline, when we would end our services to her. Somehow she determined it was going to happen, so she stopped calling me--when previously she'd call me at least twice a day to update me on things I couldn't give one care about. On the weekend, she pitched a fit about something wholly unrelated. The on-call staff, a woman utterly removed from the situation and knowing nothing about this client, was called to come in and mediate.

Somehow when Monday rolled around, and I got to work excited that I'd no longer have to work with this client in a week or so, I discovered her services had been extended, and she would not be getting the hell out of my life.

No one understands why we kowtow to her, and allow her to basically run our program, not follow the rules, and be a demanding asshole. I think the higher ups worry she's going to leave and smear our agency name to the rest of the city. I say, we have more than enough paperwork backing us up in refusing her services. And anyone who meets her more than once can recognize the manipulative soul-sucking individual that she is. She sure doesn't hide it.

Anyway. She works crazy hours, supposedly. Lately it's been 5 p.m. to 7 a.m. She came to see me Thursday morning, then took some sort of sleeping pill to sleep off the rest of the day. At 4, the other women's counselor, with whom I alternate this weekly duty, starting round up clients so she could start her support group. K told me my client was asleep, and that she was going to write a rule violation for her if she didn't show up to support group (attendance is mandatory unless you have a good excuse like an appointment or a job). I snorted. "Go ahead. It sure won't make a difference. She refuses to acknowledge every rule violation she's gotten so far."

K knocked on her door, woke her up, and told her she needed to be in support group. Several minutes later, I was in the hallway when my client approached. This woman is close to six feet tall, 200 pounds. She was a vibrating ball of anger. With narrowed eyes and clenched teeth, she spat at me: "That woman just woke me up. After I've been working nonstop and haven't been able to sleep all week. To go to support group??" The rage was radiating off her like heat waves.

"It's the policy of our program that if you're here at the time of support group, attendance is mandatory," I responded, turned, and walked away.

She rolled her fury down the hall and into the group room. I went into the office. Two co-workers were in there. One of whom yelled when I mentioned the client's response. The other laughed. "It's yall's fault she's still here," she said. "You allow her to act like that. Ellie, it's your fault!"

To be fair, she was teasing me. But I agreed with her. This client didn't dare talk to K like that when K woke her up. She doesn't dare talk to my boss's boss like this. It's me she walks all over. Me she talks to so disrespectfully. Me who has absolutely no idea how to handle her manipulative, lying ways. (Honestly, I don't know if anyone in the shelter would be able to rein her in were they her counselor instead of me. But I am the most passive, meek worker there.)

I hate her so much. I think she is a despicable human being--despite usually being able to see the good in most people.

I hate her the most because she uses me so ridiculously that even I can tell I'm being used. One minute it's "I knew you'd be the only one who would understand," after she talks about still being in love with her ex-husband who supposedly abuses her. The next minute, I'm her whipping post to take out rage.

The next morning, I was steeled for a complaint about the day before. I expected a tirade. And I practiced all night for it:

"We are not discussing this. And you will never again speak to me in such a threatening, disrespectful manner. If you are still upset with this, take it to my supervisor."

And then she pranced into my office, the day before forgotten, excited about finding a trailer to live in. I kept the meeting short, and cut her off when she started to gossip about her work--something she loves to brag about that is extremely tiresome--but still. She disgusted me, because I disgusted me. I couldn't even stand up for myself and let her know she needed to treat me like a human being.

Reflecting back

A shitty thing happened yesterday at work. I got home late, frustrated and teary, no dinner planned, and tennis at 6. Briefly I considered skipping tennis--after all, I could only scrape together a salad with a few slices of ham--how would that give me energy to play? But I went anyway. (I don't know why. My typical impulse is towards laziness.)

It was so much fun! Well, minus my serves hitting the net most of the time. There were seven of us. Two or three women have been playing for a while, so they were able to give the very beginners a few tips. I loved getting to play doubles. The feeling of a well-placed ball hitting the racquet is so satisfying!

There's another girl there who also doesn't serve well, which afforded us a lot of opportunities to joke around about needing to practice more. It made me feel a part of things. We're all joining the same team for league play. The summer season starts at the end of June, but the games don't count towards ranking. Official league starts in the fall.

In the hour and a half of play, I completely forgot about my bad day. I left glowing happily with exertion and contentment. I drove a back way home, and ended up on a street I recognized.

It was a street on which I got lost, the first week or two after we moved. I was looking for the closest branch library to our apartment. I passed it by miles, and ended up in a fancy subdivision. Driving past the same subdivision, I remembered that day, how frustrated, lonely, and lost I felt. Contrasted to this moment, when I felt tired and content, excited about the wonderfully welcoming, friendly group of women who wanted me to play tennis on their team, no matter how many times my serve went long, or in the net.

Therapy

I finally got to see the psychologist today. Finally.

At first I didn't know what to think, because she was young, and perky, and all Junior League. I generally prefer my therapists to be older. It makes me assume they've had a lot of experience. Plus, I did once see a social worker who seemed to be fresh out of school, and she just wasn't good.

But this one knows her stuff. At first, we talked about how I could feel more comfortable here, so it was really her coming up with extra-curricular ideas of things I could do (which is how I found out she was in Junior League and thinks I'd be good for it, too).

She was surprised--a reaction I don't understand yet get from a lot of people--when I told her I had difficulty making friends. She said that she enjoyed our conversation more than most therapy sessions, and figured I'd be a gentle presence for one-on-one interactions. (She seemed to say all this in a genuine way, not a creepy "I'm a therapist having trouble defining my boundaries" kind of way.) And I suppose she's a good judge of character, so she's got to be right--I just don't have the self-esteem right now actually act like that in my (nonexistent) personal relationships here. (At least my clients should be basking in my gentle calmness, I guess.)

On the other hand, she seemed to base some of those assumptions on our interactions, and talked a lot about the risk involved in making connections with other people, and I had to stop her and say, "but this isn't how I am with most people. Opening up to you is absolutely no risk for me." (I suppose that's actually unusual. Maybe therapy is hard for some people to get into. But I am so used to it, and believe so much in it, that I only need a little while to get comfortable with new therapists. It is terribly easy for me.)

Then we also delved into history, and she detected intimacy issues. It almost seems flip to say that, and to think she's just spouting psychobabble without really knowing me, but . . . I've been in enough therapy to not take every single word a counselor says as gospel. I think there's something to it, and I'm interested to see how she wants to explore it. If working through my intimacy issues helps me make friends more easily, I am all for it.

Country music

I forgot how depressing country music can be. I heard a song on the radio this weekend whose chorus went something like, "the day my life ended." It was about teen pregnancy. Maybe that's not the right chorus phrase, just what I'd think of when thinking about teen pregnancy. At any rate, by the end of the song, the singer praised that day as the best of his life. As expected, I suppose, with any contemporary country song, it was pretty schmaltzy.

I grew up around ropers and Wranglers. To define myself, I aligned myself against country music. It wasn't like I was wearing black and listening to The Cure; Soul Asylum and R.E.M. was as hard as I got. But I needed to hate country music to remind myself that I was getting the hell out of Kansas as soon as I grew up.

But sometimes I have to listen, because it makes me nostalgic for the summer when I was 18-20. My co-counselors at camp were big fans. For the younger kids' weekly dances, we'd teach them line dances and two-steps. And when I was 18, I left a lipstick stain on someone's shirt, right above his heart, from slow dancing to, I don't even remember. I just remember the perfect evening spent at a Wichita country dance club, fiercely in love with someone who was not my boyfriend that summer.

And in Chicago, I discovered a divey old Appalachian bar in a terrible neighborhood. Carol's Pub. Where outside you dodged knife fights and inside, the cover band played Johnny, Merle, and George, and, if I requested it by sticking a dollar in their tip jar, they'd play Reba's "Does He Love You?" Best visited after 2 a.m.

The first time I went, I was new to the city, and couldn't believe I'd find a bar that made me feel at home. I went with Bob and Dan, two new friends, and we two-stepped and made out on the small dance floor.

Another time, I ended up there at the end of my first date with the guy who would soon become my boss--and my boyfriend. We bonded over the old school country, and spent the next two years going to alt-country shows together.

Once a friend gave me permission to kiss her husband. They dropped me off at home, and we made out against the trunk of their car while she and another friend were waiting inside. Carol's brings that out in people.

Another, at closing time, 4 a.m., we piled onto the street only to be stopped by a crowd in front of the door. Pushing through, we saw what everyone was gaping at: a girl hoisted on top of a car by the guy who was going down on her.

On second thought, I like country music.

Sharing

I never know how much to share of myself. (I guess I'm speaking primarily of work, because if I'm nervous around someone new, I have a tendancy to babble about myself way too much.)

This week in my support group, I did a creative exercise to get my clients to think about their lives, where it's been, what they're proud of, where they want it to go. Since this group has a bunch of new people, I thought it would be a good way to get them comfortable with sharing and opening up about themselves. And I participate, too, so they can get comfortable with me. One of the parts of the activity was drawing a representation of something that others could do for you to make you happy. Most everyone drew dollar bills, for money. I drew a sink full of dishes, and I explained how much I hate doing dishes, so my husband always does them for us. You would have thought I'd won the lottery, by the reaction of the ladies. I felt ridiculous, because what's a dirty dish to wash compared to trying to survive your life of abuse and poverty?

One of my clients said, "See how much I knew about my counselor! I didn't even know you were married!" And I thought, why would I advertise to battered wives that I have an amazing husband and relationship? Or am I some kind of good example, that there are good relationships and good men out there?

In Chicago, when I worked at the shelter, clients never learned my last name, or what career I had outside of that part-time job. I was very tight-lipped, and a little paranoid about it. Of course, 75% of each shift was spent trying to catch some sleep, so I only rarely listened to clients talk about their lives. Now they have to tell me about their life. I really need to know everything about them, so I can figure out the best way to help them individually. And then I feel bad for it--that they have to be so open and vulnerable--so I share more with them.

I remember chatting with three of my ladies at the beginning of the year (three of my favorite clients ever, so the dynamic was probably different), and admitting to them how hard it was to move down here not knowing anyone, and to find a job and make friends. And I was surprised to discover after the words came out of my mouth, I didn't regret them. And they were greeted with nods and affirmations. It felt good to let them know I was human, too.

I still register the phone number until Tim's name, not mine. I'm not completely naive.

A friend

The day after I started working, I went to a three-day domestic violence training conference in Birmingham. I drove up and roomed with another newbie, the children's counselor in another department. Perhaps it was spending all that time together, the nature of the training, etc, but I learned things about her that she'd probably never told anyone else. Our conversations were really deep and introspective, but, as these things seem to go, didn't really translate into casual conversation when we'd run into each other in the break room after we got back. And our paths don't cross much in our daily work.

Then she was out on maternity leave for three months. Twenty-seven-years old, two step-children and two biological children. How do you develop a friendship with someone whose free time is taken up with changing diapers, preparing lunch for school, picking up kids from day care? (And before you think that sounds assy, the truth of the matter is, I need friends to go the gym with. To go to the bar with. To take a craft class with.) Besides, I rarely believe anyone is interested in being my friend.

But today when we ran into each other in the kitchen, she mentioned the conference, how much fun it was, and how she'd like to "get away" for another one. It made me realize she probably is run ragged with the four kids and a military husband. She probably does need a friend, as much as I do.

I think, once I'm done with the strict part of this diet, I'm going to ask her to have lunch with me.

Food

I'm not old enough to have to watch what I eat. That's what I think.

The first day of the South Beach diet went better than I expected, but I did daydream constantly about a lot of rich foods I never usually think about. Cream sauces on pasta, dark chocolate cheesecake . . .

I went to Café Louisa in the evening to hang out with Meghan, read a novel, and listen to some live music (a boy on guitar and one on bongos), but I spent more time at the counter, gazing at all the delectable treats. Most of which I'd never even consider eating were it not for this sparse diet.

I still think my life should involve long, lazy mornings with a pot of Irish tea, sugar, and cream. Chocolate croissants. Omlettes with cheese and more cheese. Late-night nachoes with habenero salsa, and did I mention cheese?

PostSecret

This site kills me. It makes me want to create postcards of secrets and thoughts.

I am Anna Kournikova

Or something. I had my second tennis class last night. I thought I was Little Miss Server until I realized you have to hit the ball into the front half of the court, instead of having one whole side of the court. I have a hard time snapping my wrist down with the raquet because I wear an Ace bandange on my wrist (for the tendonitis).

But I love it. Every second (well, except for the times I mess up a perfectly good forehand). It's so satisfying to hear the thwap of a well-placed shot, and to see the ball hit inside the bounds. I love tossing the serve, gauging whether or not it's one to hit, and swinging.

I say this all like I'm some kind of tennis pro. I'm not. This was the second group lesson I had, since a summer tennis class in college some eight years ago. But it's invigorating to gain back the half-way decent skills I had.

After class, one of the better players asked me and another beginner if we wanted to join a beginner's league. We still have a month and a half to take more classes and improve, but she said it was a good way to learn the game and gain new skills by playing slightly better players. I'm so excited! I can't wait!

Work

Work is sucking me dry right now. I teeter on the edge between bone-deep weariness and the verge of tears the whole time I'm there. I haven't even had much time to goof off and get online, so I'm busy straight through most days. Trying to figure out where someone who has absolutely zero financial resources can live. Trying to rearrange a court date for someone who got caught with stems in her purse (for the drug-dumb, I just learned stems aren't the shwaggy part of weed, but the pipes out of which you smoke). Trying to figure out the appropriate consequences for someone who lies and manipulates her way into tying me in knots. Honestly, the first two aren't that big of a deal, but the third stresses me out beyond belief. Plus, I'm worried that it's going to affect my six-month eval and raise.

And then I have to stop and think about something a co-worker told me today. She was at a baseball game with a family I help. The family were given tickets to the VIP box suite that the team owner was using that game. The children (teens and pre-teens) were enchanted with the game, the suite, the amazing spread of food. Towards the end of the game, the dessert tray was brought up. It was piled high with tantalizing desserts, manned by a ballpark employee. The twelve-year-old daughter took one look at it, and said rapturously to the employee, "how much do you love your job!?" The woman looked quizzically, and wearily, at the girl, and no one in the suite spoke, uncertain what was going on. Then the girl continued. "You get to make people happy every day!"

Later, as the family was thanking everyone at the end, the same girl said to my co-worker, "This was the best vacation ever!" When my co-worker was telling me the whole story, she couldn't keep the tears out of her eyes.

So I guess you just have to have perspective.

Except? Fuck perspective sometimes. This story, and this woman and family, make me happy, but work is still so hard these days.

Nightmares

I had a nightmare last night about one of my clients. Third one this week. I think it's a sign that things aren't going well at work when it bleeds into my dreams. I dread working with, seeing, even getting phone calls from this client. I just want her to go away so I never have to deal with her again.

When I worked overnight shifts at the shelter in Chicago, I'd have fitful sleep, punctuated by the creaks and moans of an old house settling. The pull-out bed the overnight staff slept on was right next to a big window, opening onto the wrap-around porch. I'd bolt awake several times a night, sure that the creak I heard was a vindictive abuser who found the shelter and was breaking in. My half-waking dreams were filled with guns to my head, locks that didn't hold. They were so lucid, sometimes I'd wake up in the morning, not entirely sure it was just a dream.

I thought I was so good at not letting work get to me. I thought I was able to leave it at work and forget about it at home. But then again, I based that on only having to work in crises twelve hours a week. Now it's forty.

I'm tired of this woman invading my dreams. I just want her to go away.

Church

At the conference last week, one of the breakfast keynote speakers was a Chicago police officer, ordained minister, and survivor. She was a very powerful speaker. The topic was Faith and Domestic Violence, I think. She opened with prayer, and said stuff like, "We as Christians need to . . ." and I closed her out. I thought, "How dare you assume we're all Christians?" I knew at least one woman besides myself in the room was definitely not one: the Indian woman who was yesterday's keynote speaker.* Her comments were punctuated with murmured "amens" through out the room; I was so uncomfortable. Then she recited a bible verse (maybe? I don't know. Maybe a poem.) and I realized I was singing it in my head. It was a song that I remembered from church camp.

* (I don't think I'm Christian anymore. And yet, somehow it feels blasphemous to say that outloud.)

And then I wondered: why am I struggling so hard against this? When I looked past my initial reactions of indignation and uncomfortableness, I remembered the comfort of religion. I remembered how church camp changed my life.

So we went to church on Sunday. It was one Tim had been to once or twice with a classmate. It was relatively new, held in the movie theatre. There was a worship band (usually made up of a drummer, bassist, guitarist, and a few singers), and the minister had a cordless mic so he could roam the floor. It opened with the band leading some songs. The music was typical electrified acoustic contemporary Christian, but no songs I knew in the past. But there was something to it.

My throat closed up, and I couldn't sing. I wanted to run, to leave the theatre and wait for Tim in the car. I thought I was having a panic attack. A few tears leaked out.

And I still don't know exactly why I was so scared. I think it relates to camp, and my memories. If you opened me up, I'd have a big frozen spot inside that holds together everything about camp.

* * *

It was the place where, in high school, I spent three summers talking about God and faith, and making amazing friends. Then in college, three summers counseling. I loved counseling even more. I got to spend six weeks there, instead of just one; and it was a magical place. When I left, and went back to my regular life, it was hard to see God everywhere, and live a spiritual life. There, it was just the way of life, and we all existed in a perfect bubble of nature, lazy days, friends, and the constant presence of God.

The first year, I counseled for myself. Since I loved being a camper, being a counselor was the logical next step. I made incredible bonds with my co-counselors. I thought these were friends I'd have for the rest of my life. The next two years, I did it for the kids. I remembered what an affect my own counselors had on me, and I couldn't believe kids came back the next year looking for me, excited to have me as their counselor because they loved me the year before.

The last year I was there, it was all about the kids. My coworkers were all assholes. (Strange, that would happen at a Christian camp.) Senior high week, my co-counselor slept outside on our porch with whichever campers wanted to. One night, I awoke to hearing them all whispering. My co-counselor took the lead in telling sexist and rascist jokes. I couldn't believe it. I should have gotten up, asked him to take a walk with me, and said, "look, this is incredibly inappropriate, and it makes me sad and uncomfortable." But I was shy, and just laid there crying all night. In the morning, I went to the director and begged her to let me quit and told her why. She didn't, or rather, she asked me to stick it out for another week (I was leaving early anyway--this was the summer I studied in Ireland). Because she was a good friend and a good boss, I did. It was hellish.

Because of that summer (and there's more; I'm not telling the whole story), whenever I'd think back on camp, it was with a bad taste in my mouth. All my dreams about it ended up as nightmares. (That is not a metaphor. I'd jerk away in the middle of the night, my heart pounding, or tears bathing my face.) It seemed like my entire six-year experience there was ruined because of that last summer. My feelings run deep, and are incredibly conflicted.

So that's probably why I wanted to run away and cry on Sunday.

We decided this movie theatre congregation wasn't the church for us, when we got home and Tim wanted to talk about it, and all I wanted to do was run the vacuum as loud as it could go, and not think. I couldn't even tell him what my feelings were because I couldn't articulate them. I just had this huge weight on my chest. But as we got to cleaning (the only way I was able to carry on a conversation), we realized that more than anything, we wanted to set Sunday aside as a special day. I felt happier cleaning and talking with him than I did listening to the minister talk about women's special blessings (in honor of Mom's Day).

So this is going to be our Sunday: awaken and have a good breakfast. Once a month, go to church. The next Sunday, conduct our own "church." The following, house cleaning. The next, our own church, and so on. I'm pleased with it.

Immunity

I am so used to hearing horrific things that I think I'm immune to even caring about it. Nothing really surprises me any more, unless it involves, say, a beating with a lead pipe, or attempted murder that has left a few bullets in the body.

At the conference I went to this week, one of the luncheon's keynote speakers was Mildred Nelson Holmes. She wrote Poor Orphan Trash, a memoir about an Alabama child who was severely abused by her father and grandparents, until she was made a ward of the state and placed in an orphanage with her eight(ish) brothers and sisters when she was eleven. I have been wanting to read it for a long time, but they don't have it in the public library system (embarrassing, I think, because she's a home-state girl). She was an amazing speaker, and a spectacular success story of the state's social service organizations. Some of the things she said made me tear up--something I never do when it comes to this work.

What I got out of the rest of the conference was: "Do more. Be more compassionate. Help more. Put up with more." And since I'm a bleeding heart liberal, it wasn't anything that I hadn't told myself before. My best is almost enough is basically my motto (though I prefer to think in terms of "there's always room for improvement" rather than "I'll never be good enough"), but I only thought about it later--that I should have taken a moment during the standing ovation that Mildred received to think: "This ovation is for me, too. My work is the reason why she's standing in front of us today." I should have stopped to feel the big group hug, the wave of power that came from everyone in the room believing in doing good work, helping others, and making a difference.

But instead I go back to work; grit my teeth in frustration with a particularly trying client; bend the rules to reward a particularly motivated client; and I'm happy. I'm proud of this work. I wish the need for it did not exist, but I love my job in it.

Last night before falling asleep, I talked about my depression like it was a third person in bed with us. And when I thought about it for a while, I realized that's exactly what it is. At this point, it seems to function as its own living, breathing entity.

I am gaining surface happy, but it's still there. I spent two days bonding with co-workers, getting drunk on margeritas (on the way back to the hotel after dinner, the head supervisor bought a 6-pack of Coors Light at a Racetrack, and she and a co-worker cracked them open in the backseat), watching Girlfriends and swapping storylines with my direct supervisor, and talking about race relations with a black co-worker. I felt happy, comfortable, and excited to be there. And yet, the depression still exists.

Today, I chatted with the volunteer coordinator over lunch, and we planned to play tennis together one day--after I take a few more lessons, and brainstormed cool outreach activities our agency could sponsor. I came back more sated with conversation than food, and excited about all the possibilities our talk had opened up. And still, I am trailed by a dark, lurking shadow.

I've never let it get to the point where it was living on its own before. I am the poster child for therapy. I am a counselor. (Er, sort of.) I generally make an appointment as soon as I realize it's more than a bad day or two. But then again, I used to have good insurance. Now I've got to save up for the visits. But it feels like a big relief to finally have scheduled an appointment, never mind that it's a month away.

Speaking of co-workers

I've figured out my co-workers a little bit better, and have come to the conclusion that they really didn't know what to make of me, a quiet Northerner. I thought at first perhaps they didn't like me. No one seemed to respond to my sarcasm, which was the major way of communicating in my last job. I think mostly they don't understand me.

Southerners are loud. I used to get a little freaked out in meetings with all the yelling, but now I know that's just how they are. I'll never be a yeller. I'll never be an interrupter, or a talk-over-er (?). But now I know how to sit in a meeting without thinking it will erupt in fisticuffs.

I've learned that teasing and a little dramatics go a long way. Those, and not sarcasm, seem to be the method of communication here. I can deal. I like my workplace so much better when I can tell people like me. (For a while, I made myself be ok with the fact that the children's counselor didn't like me, because I didn't want to be that girl who gets upset when everyone doesn't love her. But then I realized I might as well try to put aside my feelings about some of her behavior and be more friendly. And it seems to work pretty well. At least if she doesn't like me now, it's nothing I can change.)

Socializing and stuff

Theatre parties. I never go, because they're always on Sunday nights. But this week, I worked overtime on Friday, so I was able to take off most of Monday. So Sunday night, I squeezed myself into a pretty black strapless top, my new grass-green capris, and went out to have some fun and a gross amount of vodka lemonade. While I'm generally bored when actors start yapping about theatre, this party included crew and stage hands. At this theatre, they are some of the nicest, most down-to-earth people I've ever met. I met some of the Wardrobe girls who invited me to their weekly scrapbooking/movie nights. I chatted about knitting with a Prop Runner, whose husband just got a new Star Wars tattoo. And one of the actors informed Tim that he had a "very hot wife."

It always amazes me how happiness can increase beauty tenfold. I miss having a social life.

The party spilled over into Monday night, when about fifteen people showed up at the baseball stadium for a Biscuits home game. I had forgotten how much fun it is to watch baseball, eat hot dogs and drink beer with a rowdy bunch of friends.

Tonight I start tennis lessons. I'm scared. I haven't played in nearly ten years, and my tendonitis is raging right now. But I'm excited.

And this Saturday I'm volunteering for an arts festival at the fine arts museum. I love how busy and involved I am. I'm even looking forward to the governor's conference on domestic violence that I'm attending this week, a chance to hang out outside of work (sort of) with a few co-workers.