Massive guilt

I found myself with the pedal to the floor on the drive home, I was so stressed out. A truck with no muffler, loudly gunning it, dodged and swerved past me. His license plate? "BUBBA 4." And I had to remind myself to breathe deeply and try to relax, otherwise I wouldn't make it home alive.

I found out someone went back to her husband today, instead of going through with the divorce meeting I had set up for her at Legal Services; I told someone she needed to step up her personal hygiene and take a shower every day; I talked to a woman whose husband tackled her to the ground and tried to suffocate her after she had him served with divorce papers, saying, "Why are you doing this? I love you!"; and when I was packing up my stuff to leave for the day, I got a call straight to my phone instead of the crisis line from a woman whispering, "He's right outside. I'm scared for my life." And I had to advise her that I could do nothing--she had to call the crisis line, not me.

So when the crisis line staff tried to put her through to me a few seconds later, I said, "I'm not doing crisis calls right now. I'm leaving for the weekend." (Technically I wasn't. I had put in my shift earlier.) "Patch it through to [whoever]." It turned out whoever wasn't available--though I knew at least three other people were still there who should have been able to take the call.

(Sometimes I wonder if intake just automatically calls me if they can't reach the person who should be doing crisis calls. I think I'm the only one who ever lets them know about shift changes, and if I pick up someone else's shift. So maybe now I've painted myself into a "responsible" corner and they lean on me extra because they know they can count on me to pick up others' slack.)

But by that point, I slipped out. I was due leaving early today because of extra work the day before. But still. In my haste--and stress--I forgot to get some antibacterial soap for the woman who needs to shower more often. And after stressing quite a bit the importance of showering every day, I feel like that was a big fuck-up on my part.

So despite a gin and tonic and mediocre sushi with Tim and two of his favorite cast mates, I still feel kind of sick that I left things that way. That I ran out and dumped things on co-workers. That I forgot to give something important to someone in need. That I was irresponsible, and worked by the clock instead of by the need. I know it's going to eat away at me all weekend so I can't relax or stop thinking about it, until Monday, when I come back to yet another crisis.

Helping others

On the bus today, I held the back door open for a women who, when she exited, said, "tell the bus driver to call 9-11 for the boy in the back." When I asked what was wrong, she said, "Just look at him; you'll see."

Another girl who was huddled in the stairwell with me overheard, and we peered through the crowded bus to a young man who was rocking in his seat, looking unwell. In my observations, he looked tired and drunk, or coming down off something. But in my opinion, not in need of an ambulance.

But who am I to judge? Isn't it better to be safe than sorry? This prompted a discussion between the girl and I, who told me she was a med student at the same hospital where I interned. I suppose between a social worker and a doctor, you've got the two people most likely to intervene on another's behalf, but we didn't. We watched him for a little while, then fell to discussing the weather, and Chicago traffic. By the time I exited the bus, he was the last thing on my mind, and I forgot to say anything to the driver.

But obviously I didn't completely forget, and I'm still mulling over how far you should go to help another person. I feel like I'm fairly good in crisis, and had this been one, my instincts would have taken over and I would have known what to do. But it didn't seem very much of a crisis.

Tim and I were driving home from a party last weekend late, and a woman who was obviously developmentally delayed walked through the cross walk in front of us. She was walking stiffly and awkwardly, but it seemed more like her personal gait rather than any recent incident. A guy on a bike came slowly rolling up next to her, and I could read his lips as he asked her if she was ok. She ignored him and kept walking. He pedaled slowly next to her, and continued talking to her. It didn't seem to me like he was being solicitious in his remarks, but rather bothersome. Then the light changed, and we drove off. I turned and looked out the window after them.

Tim could tell what I was thinking. "I think she could take him," he said. And maybe she could have. He was a scrawny little dude. But I still worried. What if we had driven off right before he attacked her? What if we had stopped? What would I have said? What would we have done?

It's so hard to know.

Random Thursday

My sister is coming tomorrow, and I'm dying from excitement, but somehow I'm having a hard time rousing myself to actually clean the apartment.

Work was near-hellish today, but that's almost how I prefer things. It was my turn on the crisis line from 12 to 4:30, and I worked the crisis line from 12 to 4:30. Some days it doesn't ring once, and I have time to work on other things, but today it was nonstop. I got calls while I was on calls. So when I get to work tomorrow, I think my client load will have doubled. We haven't been at full capacity in about six months. It will be nice to be busier--hopefully I won't be online as much.

It was full-moon crazy today. Which, according to the calendar in my office, was one day late, but driving home in the dark tonight, I saw a big peach of a full moon sitting on the horizon. Yesterday's moon was a big silver dollar, and tonight was twice as big. I always wonder how the moon makes such a drastic change in one day, for it slips in and out of its phases so quietly that I lose track of it.

Googling the phases of the moon yielded a Daily Moon Phases module for websites. I might put one here.

In Publix tonight, I was standing in front of the strawberries tonight (16 oz. for 99 cents. 99 cents!!) when a woman walked up. She was tentative about strawberries, so I extolled the virtues of the current cheap--and highly delicious--berries. We talked for a minute or two, then I continued on with my shopping. Her cart was blocking mine a little bit, and she said, "Can you get by, baby girl?" It was seriously the cutest thing I'd ever heard. I don't think anyone has ever called me baby girl before, and here was a stranger saying it in a darling southern drawl. I couldn't stop beaming for the rest of shopping, thinking about how much I love the friendliness of Southerners. I am going to miss feeling so comfortable striking up conversations with folks in grocery stores. What I remember about shopping in Chicago was always being pissed off about how crowded the grocery stores were.

Specialization

I dreamt last night that a woman from Loyola called me to say, "We've looked over your school records and don't think you'll be able to hack it here, so don't even try."

Just my insecurities manifesting themselves in dreams, I guess. The older I get, the less sure I am of my intellectual capabilities. That and I haven't done school work in a good eight years. But besides that, I'm worried about what to specialize in as a career. I have the vague idea that you're supposed to know it before you do grad school, so there you can hone your skills, but since I don't know yet, I'm hoping grad school is the place where I can explore what specialization I want.

I might be burnt out on crisis.

Dr. D, she of hip psychologist fame, says the common thread running through my speech when I talk about work is wanting to help people feel safe. I wonder what job in which I could participate in that? (That's not crisis work, I mean.)

In the thick of it

I started seeing families this week. It seemed foolhardedly early, only my sixth day at the placement, but it was presented to me in a way that seemed inarguable. Well, I wasn't given much choice, no moment in which I could say, "wait, wait! Me a therapist??" I was just assigned cases.

My supervisor seems cold sometimes, but I think I'll thrive under her sparse tutelage. I'm getting the sense that she give superior guidance, but primarily expects me to to be able to do the work--to have confidence in what I'm doing. If anything, my previous experiences with supervisors have been the overly kind and generous type, which sometimes can crippled my self-confidence.

So my first family session, it didn't really go anywhere near the way that I planned. Aside from that, it went amazingly better than I expected. I waded into the family fight and said, "Stop! Stop yelling!" . . . about fifty times. I held up my hand when their tangents drifted far afield and brought them (sort of) back on topic. And at the end of it, no arguments were resolved, and I expect they'll continue more of the same next week, but I could tell they didn't resent me for being forceful with them, and I know they'll be back. Next time, I won't let them argue, and I believe they'll respect me more for it and feel more comfortable with me.

(It's a strange feeling, raising my voice in a therapeutic setting, and wondering if it's the right thing to do. It's contrary in my mind, as I compare that session with every counseling session I've ever been in (as a patient). Therapy is quiet and reflective, not filled with hollering. But it's different with families in crisis, and I know I did the right thing--now just need more of it.)

Today I was supposed to see two more families. One didn't show up, and the other called to reschedule. I think it was a good lesson for me. I was nervous. I had prepared--writing down how I wanted the session to go--but I was still antsy, not knowing exactly what to expect from people whose problems I'd only read about on a police incident report. Then to not have them show up--. I realized it was pointless to worry about it ahead of time.

This feels real. Like a job I really could hold. That while I might be clinically--and hopelessly--inexperienced, I know how to connect to people, which might be the most important thing of all.

Does ten years make me an expert?

Or just tired?

I think I'm reaching the end of my tether with domestic violence. I guess it's important to know when to quit. The problem is, I really like my job, I need the extra few dollars a month, and it's not 100% always like this.

I took a "crisis" call from someone who just needed to talk. Generally, I have no problem with those calls, and enjoy them usually. It's extremely gratifying to be able to be maybe the first person a caller has ever heard "I believe you; I support you" from, and to be able to give resources and foster empowerment. But this person was really needy, and immediately asked for my name (I can never think fast enough on my feet to make up a name--which I really feel more comfortable doing), and then kept saying, "Ellie, tell me what to do. Ellie, what should I do, Ellie?" She didn't accept my "I'm not here to tell you what to do; I'm here to discuss options with you." She talked without breathing, like she never had any opportunity to talk and felt like she needed to get everything out at once.

Names have power. That's why I try to use them on the phone if the caller tells me hers. I have a very hard time when someone unknown uses mine.

I tried talking about options. I tried, "what do you feel like you are ready to do?" I tried discussing safety plans, and then the guy she's calling about came home. I told her to make sure she's safe, and call me back, but she insisted on continuing our conversation, no matter how much I tried to make her realize this was a terrible idea. "Don't leave me, Ellie!"

And so I had a hard time caring whether years of emotional abuse had rendered her manipulative and needy, or if that was her natural personality. I just knew I needed to get her off the phone before the conversation went on for hours. (Honestly, I had that reaction about 30 seconds into the call, and it took half an hour to wrap things up.)

I feel supreme guilt and shame, and try to tell myself that I've been in the field long enough to discern someone who is immediate need or danger, and someone who just needs to open her mouth, regardless of who is on the receiving end, and my role is to help the former.

But still. Maybe I've been doing this work for far too long.

Full moon madness

In the ten years I've been working domestic violence, I don't even need a full hand to count the number of times the work has made me cry. It just doesn't happen.

But it did yesterday.

Usually Sundays are quiet. I get a lot of homework done, and I get caught up on TV shows, watching them online. Yesterday, though, I don't think the phone left my ear for more than ten minutes at a time during most of the eight-hour shift.

The full moon brings out the sweetly crazy, and the absolutely psychotic. I talked to more people who were actually in crisis than I usually do, and I heard stories that were more violent and brutal than usual.

During one, I just wanted to put the phone down and weep. What this woman had been through, I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Not on anyone. I had to help her, give her hope and a place to stay.

I drove home in a daze, started dinner, and opened a beer. I felt more exhausted than if I had spent the afternoon in the field, hoeing rows. The water was boiling for corn, I leaned against the fridge, slid to the floor, and started crying.

For a moment I wondered, is this it? Have I reached the end and shouldn't do this anymore? I finally decided it was ok.

Who else was going to cry for her?

Camp

I listened to This American Life today; it was a rerun from 1998 about camp stories. It reminded me so much about my own camp experiences, and my heart ached a little at missing it so much. Things ended really badly for me--no perfect final summer to round out my memories--so for the longest time, I pushed thoughts to the back of my mind and when I thought about it at all, it was while sleeping, in nightmares.

But the truth is, mostly camp was a little crystalline bubble of perfection, an escape from the normal angst of teenage years, a wooded oasis of peace for six summers. I'd give anything to be able to return in some capacity. Like maybe there's a summer camp out there in the wilds of Wisconsin or Michigan who needs a social worker on staff?

I felt like I was a completely different person there. Still me, I suppose, but electrified. (The things I would do to make a kid laugh . . .) Maybe I remembered being a camper--of course I did--and as a counselor I wanted to make sure the kids took away wonderful memories like I had.

Two things stick out in my mind as important and special. The second year I counseled, during a junior high week, we had Invitational during vespers. The invitational was the one night during the week where we took communion and invited everyone in camp to accept Jesus into their heart. For campers who had been coming back summer after summer, this was a meaningful tradition, and the cabin chosen lead vespers tried its hardest to make the service a tearjerker. The counselors stayed behind to talk to any kid who needed it. Technically, this was for discussing spiritual issues, but inevitably kids who had gone through rough patches, like losing a friend or having parents get divorced, would stay to cry on someone's shoulder. I don't remember what happened at the service, or after, I just remember going back to the cabin and putting the girls to bed and laying down myself. A few minutes after I turned out the lights, one of my girls got me, and said another camper was crying. I crawled up to the girl's top bunk, and said, "sweetie, what's wrong?"

I wasn't the type who called people "sweetie" or "honey," but the girl was crying so hard that it slipped out of my mouth before I knew what I was saying.

"Sweetie, what's wrong?" and I gathered her in my arms.

She said, with difficulty through her sobs, that she didn't know whether or not she had Jesus in her heart. How do you know if you do?

That was a conundrum for me as well. I was supposed to be some sort of spiritual advisor for these girls, yet I wasn't even sure how I felt about things myself. At that very moment, I didn't know if I had Jesus in my heart. Was he supposed to wave and say hi once he got there or what? And since he hadn't, did that mean he hadn't shown up? I was only 18 or 19, fairly new to Christianity myself, and not 100% sold on it. Honestly, I think I was a camp counselor more for the kids and less because I was an avid Christian.

But you don't say that to an 11-year-old kid in spiritual crisis. You don't admit that you have no answers when she's sobbing and looking to you to ease her pain somehow.

So I asked her things about her belief, and I talked about how you never know anything for sure--you just have to believe. And believing makes things real. She stopped crying, and thanked me, and we both went back to sleep.

I don't know why this ranks up at the top of my experiences, but it seems so special to me.

The second thing happened my final year of counseling, for the most part, a pretty miserable time because of my co-counselors, not because of the kids. Senior high week towards the end, we had a closing ceremony for the graduating seniors--yet another opportunity to wring the most possible tears out of an evening. This particular class was special to me. They had been freshman when I was a senior, so I had been both camper with and counselor to them. After the ceremony, one boy said he had something important to talk to me about, and could we go for a walk. We ended up sitting by the lake under the stars. I was slightly nervous, because I knew I had to be careful about anything with the slightest hint of inappropriateness, and a counselor and camper of opposite sexes off somewhere alone could fall into that category. But he and I had been friends since we'd met, at a youth rally four years before.

He talked about meeting me then. As a senior, Kurt Cobain and grunge had finally hit Marion, and I embraced the combat boots, flannel shirts, and what Hannah called my "elephant" pants. I ran around the youth rally, according to him, this really cool person, unlike any Christian he had ever met. Like him, he thought, and he decided he maybe could find a place for himself in religion. (It didn't hurt that he was a hot little skater punk. I have a weak spot for them.) He said he considered me his spiritual mentor. I didn't know how to respond, how to let him know that no one had ever said anything more wonderful or meaningful to me in my life. How to thank him in a way that conveyed how honored I was. I don't remember what I said.

I'm not the person I was back then. But I suppose I don't have access to the same environment, and the world seems like a harder place now--no place for the same blissful summers where you're closed off from the real world, existing in a special dream place like camp.

The first summer counseling, I felt alive and hypersensitive every single moment, drinking in the experience. I made friendships with my co-counselors that I thought would be rock solid for the rest of our lives, but the intensity that camp fosters rarely translates successfully to the mundane world. I thought I'd fallen in love, too, and remember like it was yesterday a walk we took, on the way to the chapel, revealing our feelings and the tragedy that we could not be together (for myriad reasons).

Oh, everything was so dramatic and important back then. (Maybe it came from being 18, too.)

My last summer counseling was night and day different than the first. I felt I was on one side of a canyon, my co-workers on the other, and I couldn't figure out how to build a bridge across to them. It didn't seem like they were trying to connect with me, either. I felt so isolated, and threw myself into the work, ignoring the importance of connecting with them. The tone was different, too. I always looked forward to immersing myself in a deeply spiritual summer and making new friendships, but suddenly the space was no longer safe. I was no model Christian during my college years, but the woods were sacred to me. The other counselors were profane, disrespectful, pretty much assholes, really.

The hardest week was senior high. I was 20, so not much older than some of them, but a few of the counselors were where I was two years previous--just a summer out of their own camping experience, and good friends with some of the very people they'd have to take charge of. S, the boys' counselor I shared a cabin and responsibilities with, he was my age, with a year or two of counseling experience, thus theoretically more capable than some of the younger counselors. Yet he was one of the worst. It was more important to him to be liked, and he took inappropriateness to an extreme.

In the middle of the week, he supervised the kids who wanted to drag their mattresses out to the communal porch to sleep. I stayed in my bunk on the girls' side with a few of the campers who didn't want to brave the mosquitos. The porch crowd didn't get much sleep, and I didn't close my eyes all night. I don't know what reality S was experiencing that made him think that sex, sexist, and race jokes were somehow appropriate in that setting, but nonetheless, that's what he was telling. Then he started talking shit about the other counselors. I could hear everything clearly through my open window in the quiet woods that night, and I felt like I was being kicked in the stomach over and over and over. Today, though, I don't remember if he said anything bad about me. Everything about the night was so horrible, him talking cruelly about me would not have made things noticeably worse. I don't know if it was an idea that has only come to me over the years, or if I thought it but couldn't execute it: I should have gotten up, gone out to the porch, and asked S if we could take a walk. The kids, of course, would have known as soon as we were out of earshot, that he would be in deep trouble--or so he would have told them later. I was so meek and passive that I probably couldn't have said how I really felt. Or maybe I would have just started crying.

I am slightly proud to believe if this happened today, I have grown enough that I would have addressed it. Back in 1995, though, I stayed in my bunk, crying and praying all night.

And then I think of the "Footsteps" poem, and I felt God with me that night, but what I would have given not to be there, listening to hatefulness where there should have been love.

I wanted to leave the next day. I was leaving early anyway, to study in Ireland, skipping the last week of the summer. I only had a week left before then, and I didn't think I could make it after that night. The only person I felt close to was the camp director, and she asked me not to go.

So I stayed, and got through the end of senior high week, and the next week. I don't know how, or what happened. That night was burned so deeply on my consciousness that, more than ten years later, it's really the only thing I remember from that hellish summer.

I relived it in dreams for years after. My photos are stuffed far out of sight; last time I checked, it even hurt to look at them. My whole love affair with camp was obscured by that last summer. It seemed so unfair that I couldn't even locate my good memories of it; my sleep self only recalled the bad.

But ten years have passed. I'm a different person now, which is good. Maybe someday, back in Kansas, visiting for the summer, I could go back and make peace with the woods again.

Magic

There are things I believe. Things I don't. And a lot of things I don't have the energy to determine whether or not I believe them.

I don't feel comfortable enough to articulate that I don't believe in God. I definitely don't have any certainty that I don't.

Tim's old boss, Witch Doctor Bob (a naturopath, actually) does things that can never be explained. A lot of his remedies don't work on me, because I don't believe in them.

Being so skeptical, though, doesn't account for me believing in Tim's magic. I can't explain it. I just do. To put it into words sounds ridiculous. Like how our bedroom had an off-putting vibe--I never wanted to spend time there--so I asked him to do some magic in there. Now I am drawn to spend time there.

He says a lot of what is called magic has to do with energy. At my old job in Alabama, I encountered a client who threw more venom at me than I'd ever experienced in my entire life. Just the sight of her would put me in major crisis mode, and every interaction with her would sap me of my strength. I put a lot of effort into deciding how I needed to handle her, and things I could say to attempt to take a stand against her taking such supreme advantage of me. Tim told me of a spell to try.

I was, of course, skeptical, but since I didn't have anything to lose by that point, I tried it. He told me to envision a shield in front of me, to spend time fully fleshing out what I imagined it to look like. Then when I went to work, think about holding it. The next day, I was ambushed in my office by this client. I didn't know she would be showing up at that particular time, so I didn't have a chance to think again about my shield.

But this time things were different. Instead of glaring across the desk at me, waves of hatred emanating from her body, she behaved more reasonably. Not like I was her favorite person in the world, but like she could finally tolerate my presence and perhaps respect that I could help her.

Of course, logically I thought something had happened on her end. Maybe she finally decided it took too much effort being so hateful. But I decided not to discount what I had done. My own magic. I think if I acknowledge it and believe in it, then it must have some power.

Good in crisis

I'm sick right now. Open my mouth to breathe and I cough up (painfully) a lung. I missed a day of class and internship this week, but I couldn't call in sick to work. Not only is it hard to find a last-minute replacement for an overnight shift, but I make a little over a hundred dollars per night, and we can't afford to lose that.

So I dragged myself there, tossing and turning all night. Luckily it was quiet. Until the morning. One of the ladies was in a bad way, dizzy, disoriented, couldn't stand up. I watched her slide to the floor and bang her head against a table before I knew what was going on. She said it was because she hadn't taken her medicine, but then her meds didn't seem to help. Maybe it was because she hadn't been to her methadone clinic in two days. But also, she was losing feeling on the right side of her body. Another woman and I helped drag her to the bathroom to pee, and dressed her, then I called for an ambulance. When the paramedics arrived, I gave them her medicine and a note about when she had taken each one last.

I can't help but feel I was so cool in the situation because I wasn't all there. I hadn't slept well, and my chest was burning, and I didn't have many extra resources to expend freaking out.

But then again, in retrospect, the situation wasn't that stressful for me, and I knew what to do.

I feel capable. I think my whole working life, I've waited to feel capable. I've never done anything long enough to feel so capable. But now I'm reaching a point where I do have enough experience that I can handle unexpected things that come up. It's an awesome, awesome feeling. And it's so gratifying to be able to see how far I've come, and how I've improved.

Fresh new hell

What fresh new hell is this?

I know the past two weeks have been evenly broken up by a camping trip and a day on the gulf beach, but I scarcely remember it. I don't even remember what happened the first week, or how I got through this week. Each day I barely had time to give more than a cursory glance to e-mail, then the day was filled with body-crunching stress, and my evenings melted into one drink after another to settle my nerves.

I had a moral quandry to relay from last week, yet all I remember now is that I was in one--not actually what it was. It has been replaced with a new one from this week.

My heart hurts a lot. I had the opportunity this week to receive a summons at a late hour (at which I should have been asleep) to deal with suicidal tendancies. Sometimes I revel in crises, because I am electrified by purpose. It feels like winning the Nobel prize to me, knowing how to handle a crisis.

And then sometimes crises don't have answers. They just exist. And nothing can be done. I try and I try and I try. I'm doing everything I can, and I can't fix it. I can't even moderately help it. Because nothing can be done. Nothing. Not even when you are holding someone's future in your hands, and they are pleading with you to not fuck it up.

And how does it always happen on the day that your boss says, "Leave early! It's a holiday!" that's the exact day you absolutely cannot leave anywhere near your regular quitting time?

Fives

Five years ago I was vowing to spend at least 6 months single. I had just gotten out of a long, serious relationship, and I was spending lots of time treating myself gently. Good alone time.

Five months ago I was starting my reapplication process for grad school, and realizing I felt confident in my job.

Five days ago I had dinner on the porch and enjoyed a bottle of wine and a cigarette on an incredible, unseasonable March evening.

Five hours ago I rolled into work, barely on time, to discover suddenly I had twice as many clients as the day before.

Five minutes ago I had a crisis call on someone who did crack yesterday.

Five minutes from now, I'll turn my attention back to work.

Five hours from now I'll be playing tennis with Sally

Five days from now I will be saying goodbye to my sister after her weekend visit here.

Five months from now I'll be in living in Chicago!

Five years from now I'll be done with grad school and hopefully will have some idea where I want to focus my attentions.

All Het up

Today I encountered a lot of petty bullshit. Sometimes I am in awe of how mean-spirited, petty, and vindictive women can be when they have bigger problems they don't want to face. I ended my day confronting a client, "I've heard this report about your behavior. Did you do it? What about this report? Is it true?"

"I have witnessed myself the way you bully and pick at other women. It needs to stop."

Only it didn't. I left work only moments before she blew up at the other clients. How do I know this? Because I got a phone call. At home. From a client. This is the second time in two weeks that I have been called at home about client problems and complaints.

It's my fault, really. One day I took a client to a job interview right around the corner from my apartment, so I dropped her off, gave her my number, and went home to have lunch with Tim. I paused before handing over my number, but then I thought of the alternative, her calling back to the agency, and them calling me on my cell phone. It just seemed easier this way.

Oh boy was I not thinking. After the first call (and subsequent huge blowup that ensued that night, getting both my boss and I in trouble), I forgot to tell the client, "don't ever do that again. Throw away my number."

So she gave it to another woman who had a problem tonight to discuss with me.

Luckily, I can refer most problems (ish) to my boss, and she's used to being called at all hours with client strife and agency crisis, but I haven't heard back from her yet tonight, so I'm not going to be able to sleep. Wondering how the situation is playing out has me on edge all night.
About my job, I thought: "At least I can leave work at work," for I am pretty good at that. But I can't when it calls me at all hours.

What also makes me not be able to sleep are my actions before I left work. Initially, I was pretty proud of myself for confronting a slippery, bitchy, bullying woman. I've needed to for a while, but never much have the nerve.

But then I think, "that's why she blew up at the other clients." If I had just kept my mouth shut . . .

If I had just kept my mouth shut, then I'd have to put up with daily tattlings from other clients, though.

What the hell is the right thing to do in this situation? I'm sure not looking forward to tomorrow.

It's the kids

The kids kill me every time. I put my hands on my hips, cock my head, and watch a 4-year-old mimic me, realizing that in doing so, she's saying that she finally trusts me. And I think about wanting to protect her, from her father who hits her mother, from her mother who isn't the best parent in the world.

A 10-year-old who catalogs the abuse his mother has suffered, and lists it readily for her when she asks for clarification (even after I've told her not to treat him like a partner, and to let him be a kid). And the 7-year-old who has suffered more at the hands of a sick and twisted relative than I ever want to know about. Who looks up at me and hangs on my arm like I'm going to save her from all that.

I can deal with women in pain and crisis. Because they're adults. Theoretically they can help themselves; my job is only to listen and give suggestions. But the kids. There's no use in saying, "Things will be ok. I'll help keep you safe." Because I can't, and who knows if things will ever be ok?

I couldn't ever work just with kids. It's too heart-breaking. I think about them long after I've forgotten their mother.

I want a friend

Tomorrow, there's a chance I may see a woman I want to be my new best friend. I've only seen her twice, and talked to her once. She just seems like someone I would be friends with. I talked to her November-ish at the last Task Force against Domestic Violence monthly meeting that we both attend. And there's another meeting tomorrow.

It takes a lot for me to just strike up a conversation with a stranger (if I already have something invested in the conversation, like, say, I think the person is cool and want to get to know them), but I knew she worked at the rape crisis center, and I had an issue to talk about with one of their employees. So I figured it would be a good start. Of course, I forgot to ask her name, or introduce myself, so I am a bonehead.

I hate being in the vulnerable position of thinking someone is cool, and wanting to be their friend. Or even worse, really wanting and needing friends. It's always easier to strike up friendships when you don't actually need them.

So anyway, I've been giving quite a bit of thought to possibly seeing her tomorrow, and how to not-at-all awkwardly say, "hey, I'm new to the city; you seem cool; want to get a drink sometime?" I hate how much thought I'm giving it. It makes me feel a little sick inside. It's enough to make me say, "Alright, already! I don't need a new friend badly enough to feel so gross about how much I'm thinking and planning what I'm going to say."

Except that I do need friends. I think lack of friends is the last thing that's keeping me from being really happy here.

I hate making new friends. I'm so bad at it. It's like having to ask out a new guy, except that it's more stressful. I never had a problem asking guys out. With girls, if I think they are cool, it suddenly becomes vitally important that they think I'm cool in return, (but I never actually believe people value me like that) so I psyche myself out of exploring potentially wonderful new friendships.

I hate this about myself. I don't understand how I could have self-confidence about everything in my life but my personality. I feel like it's something I could talk about for years in therapy (and I have before), yet not change about myself.

Competitive-ness

I don't know if Tim's and my competitive natures are a particularly toxic combination, or if I just have a serious character flaw. I cannot play games with him. Specifically, I cannot play games with him if he's teaching me how to play them. His mom and sis got him a Mah Jongg set for his birthday. I have always wanted to learn how to play (if for no other reason than I like the Asian characters and designs on the tiles. I didn't actually know that it was like gin rummy. I thought it was played like dominos.).

So we made chili, invited two of his classmates over, and had a nice evening planned. And everything was lovely until we got out the tiles and Tim started explaining how the game works. Instantly, I started being a bitch. I was embarrassed, because I don't like to do that around guests, at the risk of making them feel uncomfortable. But I just couldn't help it. I hated the game! I hated not knowing how to play it. And I particularly hated that Tim ended up with 1,000-plus points, while I had 26. (That the other two beginners had less than 20 didn't make me feel better.)

My competitive nature seems to revolve mostly around trying to beat him at everything. It's a road headed to heartbreak for me, however, as he is naturally gifted in just about everything he tries, and extremely intelligent to boot. I kind of hate him. As of yet, I have never beat him at a single board or card game.

I have spent my life being better than most people in most things, yet coming to terms with the fact that I'm not actually that great. So I don't know why my inner ten-year-old "I'm the best at everything" comes out when he and I play games. Or why the person I love most in the world is also the person I'll do anything to be better than.

No, not better. As good as. It seems to be the death of my self-confidence sometimes to be with someone and feel like I'm not as good as they are in all things. I know it's futile, and one that could ruin me and the relationship if I don't keep control of it. Thank god I'm not an actor, and he not a social worker. It's better when I cultivate my own life and talents.

In bed later, after I got over myself, we talked about it. He said that his classmates, the girls we had over for dinner, view me as being extremely self-confident. I talk about my job quite a bit with them, and they have relationship talks with Tim a lot, so I think that's where their perception comes from. Because I am really confident about my abilities job-wise, it makes me think that I should just stick to doing things I know how to do, or am already good at. But, oddly, the confidence I am finding in my work leads me to feel (slightly more) confident about doing things I am not good at, or have never done before.

Too bad that doesn't bleed over into learning new board games. But at least the new confidence is affecting the important parts of my life. If I'm unable to play board games maturely, but can lead small group discussion or listen empathically to someone in crisis and help her, well, I think it'll be ok.

I need a backbone

I am not assertive at all; I have to work up my courage to be. I never know when is the right time to do it, the right battles to pick. And I have a way of fantasizing about each potential situation in which I must confront something, until I am completely sure that no matter how I handle things, I am going to end up screwing things up.

For instance: this lab bill that I recently got, for tests that shouldn’t have been done. I’ve been talking to the billing liaison, so she only knows parts of what happened. She said it wasn’t a lab mistake—the doctor really ordered the tests. And I told her I never gave permission for the tests to be ran, so she’s going to talk to the doctor about it, see if maybe we can foist the bills off on insurance. And I said, “if they don’t pay for it, I still don’t feel like I should be responsible for it.” Not aggressively, just stating my rather timid opinion of being stuck with a $200 bill for unnecessary tests I wasn’t warned I might have to pay for.

And I’ve had such horrible experiences with doctors, that I fully believe soon his office will have my name written on a list near the receptionist’s phone stating, “Crazy woman. Don’t help her. Hang up as soon as you can.” (Paranoid? Totally. But I’ve had experiences like that with another doctor.) Just the idea of going to see the doctor makes me nervous. Walking into the office, interacting with the office staff, I have trouble breathing normally. I get so nervous that I’m going to fuck things up and they’re going to hate me. I started worrying about that from my first visit, where I didn’t have my insurance card, and the office had to scramble to track my info down.

I’m scared of asking people to work hard for me, because then they’ll resent me and refuse to help me further.

And I never know when to make a fuss. I spoke to the doctor who comes weekly to see my clients, and she said the tests never should have been done, and I shouldn’t have to pay for the bill. So I feel like I should take a stand should they try to pass the buck to me. But honestly, despite now starting to feel a little bit violated by these tests that were done without my foreknowledge, I really, really, really liked my doctor. I felt so comfortable with him, and my appointment was filled with lots of discussion and communication. We talked about social issues, and he said his wife runs the rape crisis center here. He even said he never offers to do pelvic exams on women, but instead refers them to his wife because he wants his patients to be comfortable, and a lot prefer women doctors to do those (but I needed a new birth control prescription immediately, didn’t want to pay another co-pay to see a gynecologist, and was comfortable with him). I was excited to have found him. I don’t want to fuck things up with him so I’ll have to start going to someone else. I want him to say, “oh, my mistake, I’ll take care of that bill,” so I can stop worrying and feel comfortable next time I’m sick and need to see someone.

In the past

The last time someone screamed in my face and raised his hand to me, it was nine years ago—almost nine years ago exactly, and thinking about it still knocks the wind out of me.

When I moved to Chicago, I started working part-time at a cafe to meet people and make friends. I loved it. It was a Northwestern hangout, so most of the customers and workers were college students, but one night an older guy came in for coffee. I could tell he was probably about my age.

He was wearing a Dublin tee-shirt, and I asked him about it. Turned out he had studied there during college, too, so we talked about our Ireland experiences.

I remember that night so clearly. I wasn't a coffee drinker because I couldn't handle the caffeine, but for some reason I was hopped up on it that night. I was having fun and flirting with all the customers. The other worker wandered over and wondered who I was talking to, and I made a joke about Ireland or cute boys or something. I only worked once or twice a week, so I was excited to go back, hoping to see this guy again. It was a few weeks until I did, but he seemed to recognize me, and we sat and talked. Kevin was an aspiring writer, like me. We had a lot to talk about. A few meetings later, he gave me his phone number, but I didn't call him because I had a boyfriend.

I later found out he had gone to the cafe every day after our meeting in hopes of seeing me again. Not because he thought I was cute (though of course he did) but because whatever I had teased him about had angered him to distraction. He prepared a cut down for me, and went back to the cafe to use it on me. As days passed without seeing me, his anger lessened, and then I was so friendly and interesting when we spoke for the second time, he decided to save it.

(I didn't know that until deep into our relationship. I wonder if it would have made a difference if I had known earlier.)

For we did start dating. He was intelligent and witty, could debate about anything. I was skittish, though, not wanting to commit to anyone after the recent breakup with somebody I had loved. We slept together for the first time on Halloween afternoon of 1998, and lying in bed afterwards, I said, "You know we're not exclusive, right?" That evening I went to a party, made out with a much older man, and started dating him as well.

If I had to articulate it, I'd have said I didn't particularly like Kevin that much, if at all, and used my last breakup as an excuse to end things right before Christmas. There was just something about him that was dark and ugly and hurtful, and I could feel it. I didn't like him and I didn't like myself when I was around him. The breakup lasted a few weeks, though. I was lonely and needed a friend. There was also something about him that drew me near, something that made me overlook the darkness.

We got back together and got serious immediately. I got drunk at a blues club and said, "I love you."

"I know," he said.

Then came the day things changed for good. He lent me his car so I could drive him to one of his friends' houses for a party. On the way down we discussed my friend Heather. Heather had told me she wasn't that comfortable around him, that there was something about him that made her uneasy. Kevin wanted to hang out with her, he said, independently of me. He said he wanted to get to know her as a friend, not as my friend. I refused to give him her phone number and skirted the issue, for I didn't really want to tell him that Heather didn't like him.

He started yelling and pressing the issue. Said that I was insecure if I thought he was interested in her. I was surprised he brought that up. Jealousy wasn't in my nature.

I'd never argued with a boyfriend before. I'd never had one so angry at me before. I was terrified. I dropped him off, went back home, and sobbed for the rest of the evening. I decided to break up with him. I practiced what I was going to say, and picked him up again after the game was over. He grabbed me and hugged me tight, so tight I couldn't get my words out. I didn't know what to do, so I rode home with him and he spent the night.

Looking back, I could say that was the moment when I knew I gave up and gave him permission to be abusive, but what did I know then? I just didn't know what to do. (Would you believe I was volunteering for a battered women's shelter then? If I had let myself make the connection, I still probably would have thought, "but my situation is not nearly as bad as the women I'm talking to in crisis . . .")

He hated all my friends. Particularly a girl that I worshipped and adored. She was an amazing, unique individual, and I didn't understand how he could hate her. He also believed I was having sex with all my guy friends, and would yell at me about it until I'd say, "Fine. That's what you believe? Go ahead. I don't care," because saying, "No, of course I didn't sleep with them, don't be ridiculous," was like talking to a wall.

The last time I socialized with any of my male friends was a party I threw with my roommates in the spring. After I finished talking to one of them, I went to sit next to Kevin, and he grabbed me hard and said, "Tell me you love me. Say it." He had a smirk on his face like he had won something. He tried to start a fight with them when they left, and then we screamed at each other all night. We stopped going out, because I couldn't deal with being in public with him. Not because we'd argue around other people, but because I felt terrified going to a bar or club with him, like being seen in public as a couple would make it more real, and I'd have to give in to the feelings of doom and suffocation that I'd been pushing away to the back of my brain and do something about it.

We'd argue all the time. He was so good at it. I've never met anyone who could hit me so hard using only words. I don't remember if our arguments would end up with me against the wall, him in my face, or if the words just make me remember it like that. They got under my skin and tore at my flesh. I had no recourse but to batter my arms against him to push him away and leave the argument. I remember at that time some discussions with some online friends about hitting. One woman in particular I remember stating unequivocally that it was absolutely never acceptable to hit anyone, even hitting back in defense. I thought, "You lucky bitch. You have no idea what it's like. How words can hurt worse until the only way you can escape is by lashing out with your fists." But of course I couldn't say it. Of course I didn't want to make it real by telling other people.

I'd try to avoid sex with him and lay in bed feeling a huge weight pressing down on me until I couldn't breathe. I couldn't envision the future past the next day, because I'd think about ways to kill myself to get out of being with him. Yet . . . and yet? I thought I couldn't survive without him. I didn't have many friends anymore, for those connections had been tenuous at best, and he had made me sever them. One day the next fall (about 6 months after we'd started dating), I was watching a movie with Heather, and started sobbing. I couldn't lie anymore. I told her I had to break up with him.

A few days later, I told him. I said, "Kevin, I'm not happy in this relationship. I want to break up."

He said: "No. We're not breaking up."

I responded, "But I'm not in love with you."

"No. You haven't even given me a chance. We've never talked about this before. We're not throwing this away."

I said, "But I'm not attracted to you anymore. I don't even want to have sex with you."

Yet somehow he battered me down with his words. He was so good at talking. In the end, I didn't even question the idea that breaking up should be a mutual step. I didn't know I had the right to put a stop to it, by the time he was done talking. I agreed to try.

It lasted a week. I couldn't try. I knew I needed to be away from him. The next breakup was slightly better. But he lived with my roommates and I, so getting out was tricky. The night we broke up for good, he said, "it's going to be so hard to sleep in my own bed. . . ." (we still had our own bedrooms in the apartment) and I thought, "I need to hurt him as little as possible," so I could slip out as easily as possible, and let him continue to share my bed. Then it became a habit until I moved out a month later. I was never tempted to stay with him. Oddly, we really did seem to get along better as friends, and I started enjoying the time we spent together again.

Until one night when he said, "Tell me the truth. Are you still attracted to me? Have you at all considered having sex again?"

He wanted the truth? I told it, and it felt good.

No. No, not for one single second.

He leapt out of bed. "Liar!" and then he left.

A few minutes later, he came back, and poured a pitcher filled with ice water and cubes on me under the covers. I started screaming and jumped on him. He threw me off, and dragged me into the living room. I was hitting at him, half angry for the water, and half just trying to get him away from me. He backhanded me across the face, and I shut down, went numb. He grabbed me to hug me, and I couldn't move. I couldn't even tell him to get away from me, to never ever touch me again. I let him herd me back to bed, where he put new dry sheets on the bed, tucked me in, and curled around my stiff, uncomprehending body. Before we drifted off to sleep, he started laughing. "I'm sorry, but that was thoroughly enjoyable, that water."

I moved out, and we stayed in touch a little bit, mostly because I was scared of what his reaction would be if I cut things off entirely. In the end, he gave me a reason to, and I stopped answering the phone. After a very, very long while he stopped calling. After, I unlisted my phone numbers, and kept my name off apartment buzzers. I breathed a sigh of relief when I got promoted at work and got a new extension number he wouldn't know. We never spoke again.

I've seen him three times since. The first, two years later, he was walking in my new neighborhood, the second place I moved after leaving him. I kept my head down--luckily, I was wearing a hat--and was terrified that he had moved into my neighborhood. I had a panic attack every time I saw a turquoise Ford Focus driving past me on the street. It became instinct to scan the backs for the particular bumper sticker I remembered.

Nine years later, I doubt he's still in Chicago, or even has the same old car, but I still lose my breath at turquoise Ford Focuses.

The second, a year or two after the first incident, I was volunteering for a concert at my guitar school. I was sitting near the sound booth, keeping track of the set list. I was hidden in back. I saw a guy up front. He shook his hair out, raised his arms to tuck his hair behind his ears, and my stomach dropped. It was a specific gesture I will remember as Kevin's forever. It is branded on my brain. I spent the rest of the concert reminding myself to breathe, and ran out the back door afterwards.

The third and last time, I was on a date. This was perhaps four or five years after we broke up. The date was going horribly already and near the end of it, I got up to go to the bathroom and walked past the bar. Kevin was sitting there, waiting for a table with a woman. I don't know if he saw me. I went back to my date and started crying. We left. How do you explain to a second-date why you start crying after returning from the bathroom?

I don't think much about him anymore. I made pretty specific choices to date guys a whole world of different from him. I don't flinch at anger anymore and bow my head. But it's surprising how quickly I can remember it all like it was yesterday.