Am I too idealistic?

What a stressful week. The worst yet. If work had been this stressful from the beginning, I probably would be working at Starbucks by now, so at least it goes in waves.

Lots of second-guessing myself this week. Internal strife among clients, which brings out my meek and timid side. The side I hate, the side I wish didn't exist, yet the side I am learning to come to terms with because I just am not an aggressive person, and no amount of wishing will make me so.

I work with a lot of forceful personalities. A lot of cynics (not that the two go hand in hand). But I'm encountering the cynical side a lot lately, and it's hard.

One co-worker tells me frequently that I let people get away with murder. (In her defense, she's very blunt, but a kind-hearted, not cruel, person.) I can do nothing but agree. She's right. I can't seem to get clients to toe the line. Client from hell, bane-of-my-existence knew exactly how much she could get away with when she was with me. She didn't try it with anyone else.

But lately, this same co-worker has been spewing too much cynicism for me. Today, I got a new client who came in and decided she wanted to leave two hours later. "You know she got here, didn't like what she saw, and is going back to him," this co-worker (our follow-up counselor) said. "You'll know when you've worked as long as I have, that's what they always do."

Maybe that's what they always do. (Or I should say usually, because it takes a battered woman seven to ten times to leave an abuser for good--or until he kills her.) I know my clients, no matter how much I help them--get them set up with Food Stamps, counsel them on the dynamics of domestic violence, help them raise their self-esteem--I know they're likely to end up going back.

I'm not naive in that respect. A few months ago, I found out my favorite client of all time, a precious jewel of a sweet woman, left the fantastic independent housing I helped her gain to move back in with her husband who has threatened to kill her many times. Disappointed? A little. I was so proud of everything she accomplished on her own. I thought she was on her way to a better life. Surprised? Hell no. And I didn't feel personally offended that she did not take everything I was offering and become Superwoman.

But I have to act like they're not going back. Like the work I'm doing is so important, it will change her life, give her hope, and give her a future without fear. It's absolutely the only way I can do this job. I just don't think I could stand to help someone, to stay late, work overtime to find shelters in another state when I was thinking, "Why bother? Why should I work this hard to find info for you when you're not going to use it?"

I've always striven to work without strings attached. To not attach importance to someone taking my advice or help, or ignoring it. I thought I have always done a good job of that, but I wonder if I need to pretend, at least, for the sake of my optimism, that they are going to use what I give them.

That my work is not in vain.

I drink alone

Friday was the worst day of my work life thus far. It involved claims of suicidal tendancies, a very long wait at the emergency room, and a feeling of complete and utter helplessness. And it all happened in not just eight hours, but twelve. I actually cried when I was done. (No matter how upsetting or frustrating things get, I rarely cry at work.)

I left work at 8 p.m., having been too busy to eat lunch or dinner, and drove through wet streets that shone during flashes of lightning. (It was a dark and stormy night.) I didn't know what to do, where to go, how to process my day, and how to work up strength to return to work on Monday. I just knew I couldn't think about it.

I ended up at my favorite burrito lounge. Busy on a Friday night, there was only room at the bar, which is where I wanted to be.

I'm not entirely at ease--not at all, in fact--being alone at a bar. But I absolutely couldn't be with anyone at the moment, nor could I face going home.

I ordered a Corona, and hunched over the bar. It was awkward. For me, anyway. No doubt no one else in the bar and restaurant even gave a second thought to me, but I felt out of place and uneasy in my position. It helped to keep a hand on my beer, and soon I drained it. My brain slowed down and emptied. I started to feel blessedly numb. I stopped worrying about how I looked to others, and what they thought. I stopped worrying if I looked too exhausted or worried or upset.

The bartender was inept, but he finally noticed my empty bottle, and gave me another. I ordered food. I ate slowly, and memorized the labels on the bottles behind the bar. I tried not to stare at the people in conversation to either side of me. I got drunkish.

I was ready to leave when the bartender set down another beer, and said it was from a guy in the kitchen. I think he was a little runty guy, and I was far too old for him. But I felt it would be poor form to turn down the drink, and besides, it was only the second time a stranger had ever bought me a drink (the first was at a club in college, when the waitress pointed out a skeevy guy who offered a drink and suggested I turn him down. I got a water instead.). He didn't bother me. In fact, he didn't even approach me. He was probably the type who just likes to be able to say he's gotten a woman's drink before.

I drank it slowly, for I still had to drive. And then I was ready, and my mind was softer and clearer and more peaceful, and I was able to put work behind me and go home.

It's not something I can do easily or often, but in the end, I was glad I did. I like being able to do things alone.

I still feel hopelessly naive, or guillably hopeful. I'm the only one who still believes a woman when she says something about her life. I work so hard for my clients that I like to at least pretend that what we've accomplished together, they'll take on and continue long after I'm gone.

I guess I can accept that I am only able to do so much, and then wash my hands of it, and let the woman do whatever she was always planning on doing regardless of me. If someone decides to go back to the person who beats the crap out of her because she believes that this time when he says, "I've changed," it's true, there's nothing I can do about it, so my feelings are not going to be hurt. I'm not going to cry about it.

But when I work to help someone, and my coworkers say, "she's not going to do it; she's going to lose her apartment/go back to him/fail in all ways," and they say this because they can "read a person," it makes me lose hope, and it makes me feel like I'm shit at reading people. Something I think a social worker actually has to be halfway decent at.

Which makes me rethink my career completely and totally. Why am I going into this if I am terribly naive and hopeless at really understanding and knowing people? And what's wrong with me that I can't pick up on people's nonverbals--that I take everyone at face value, that I let them present to me the person they want me to know?

But I also think it's dangerous to start evaluating people. A part of me feels like, no matter whether I believe it truly or not, I have to at least pretend like everyone I work with is going to make big changes in her life, protect herself from violence, and become an independent woman. Because otherwise, I just don't know if I could continue my work. And I don't think it would be fair to, say, bend over backwards to help one woman find a job or an apartment just because I think she'll really stick with the job, stick with the lease, but give lukewarm effort to another because I believe she'll drop everything once her boyfriend finds her again and says, "baby, I miss you."

But of course I always focus on the negatives, and I wonder what is wrong with me that I am so naive and hopeful?

The woman who says all this is actually one of my favorite people at work. This week, she saw my countdown on my bulletin board--thick black Xs marking out the months until I leave. And she laughed, and said, "I bet you're ready to go!" I moaned to her how burnt out I am, and she said, "but you can't let that show in your work. You gotta keep doing your job . . ."

Part of me feels like I am very realistic, and divorced, in some ways, from feeling much for the job. I know not everyone I touch is not going to become golden. I only have one or two people that I could still brag about, in a year and a half, and an uncountable number who went back to or on to someone new who hits them. That's life, and I don't cry about it at home. I'm not a miracle worker. But I still have to act like miracles will happen, and I continuously wonder if that makes me a weaker social worker.

Putting it out there

Tim thinks I need to be specific about what I want out of a job, and put it out into the universe to let it simmer.

For the first time ever, I can be specific. I finally know exactly what I want to do. I guess this is why I went to grad school, but in some ways, knowing exactly what I want to do also blows. If I had a wider view, it would probably be easier to find a job. I could look at the job listings, usually around 25-50 each time I look, and actually find something that looks at least appealing enough to apply for. I wouldn't be crippled with anxiety, wondering what I can possibly do that won't make me feel like I'm wasting my time, or finding something that will at least position me well for what I can do eventually. Now that I know what I love, anything less than that really will feel like a waste of time.

So here goes, universe. Work your magic for me.

I want a job at a community mental health agency, doing family therapy with adolescents. I want the job to allow for some group work, perhaps with self-esteem or social skills training, maybe anger management. Maybe music therapy! Maybe dance! Anything creative that will spark the kids' interest. I want the job to have the room to grow into restorative justice and peace-making circles. I want to be able to some day write a grant for the purchase of a bunch of drums so that we can have drum circles.

I want the hours to be flexible, so I can start late and work late, and still maintain my shelter job. I want it to be maybe Tuesday through Saturday, so I can take my Sundays and Mondays to be with Tim.

And lastly, I'd like it to be within biking distance on warm days. I don't want a drainingly long commute. I won't mind doing home visits, I won't mind if I have to drive clients around in my car. I just don't want to have to drive for an hour or more in bad traffice to get to work.

That's it. This is exactly what I want. This is my job description of heaven.

Edited to say: I thought of something else. I'd love to also be able to run a movie series or book club for teens that had some therapeutic value to it. I am thinking of this as I proofread a library journal, and it seems like the young adult librarians are always doing cool things that I think could somehow be woven into a social worker's job, too.

I always thought I'd become a librarian, after spending years in the cult of ALA. If there was some way to combine the two--no, three, including the editing bits of my life that I miss--that would be the perfect job.

I suppose what it all really boils down to is that I want a job where I can be creative. I never realized what an asset that could be to therapy, and it's exciting to see that I can include that in my work. But I need a place that values it, and lets me run with all my wild ideas.

Teasing

Part of me just doesn't understand sociability. Of course I love having friends. But work is a different matter. I was used to office work, where the people in my department would hole up their own offices. We'd gather for a weekly staff meeting, occasionally be drawn out for collaboration projects, then get together for happy hour on Fridays to drink too much and complain about work. No one ever looked askance if I didn't emerge from my office the entire day.

Now I realized that spending more than a few minutes shooting the breeze, sometimes talking work, sometimes gossiping, is really a way of life (here anyway). I sat at the front desk for part of the afternoon today, because the admin assistant was out, and a coworker I really enjoy sat with me for about an hour, chatting. Talk turned to the admin (who is fairly new, only about 2-3 months into the job). My gut twisted. I get really uncomfortable with the amount of gossip that goes on at work, and lately there's been a lot about this woman. She and I are friendly and talk a little, but there's a lot of weird tension between her and many of the other staff, and it seems partly to be racially motivated, which makes me freak out even more. I feel stuck in the middle.

But what I understand now is that she doesn't really make much of an effort. I imagine it would be hard to come into the middle of our department, because there are a lot of forceful personalities--it sure was hard for me, but my coworker said at least I didn't isolate myself and not talk to anyone. I don't know about that. I think this coworker just likes me and so gave me the benefit of the doubt. But still, it took me a long time to feel comfortable amongst my coworkers. A looong time before I could sit through a staff meeting without worrying that the raised voices meant huge conflict, instead of normal discussion.

It did take me a while to realize that I enjoy my coworkers a lot more if I chat and joke around with them during the day instead of holing up in my office.

Speaking of joking, it sure doesn't feel like that when my coworkers bug me about having kids. For a brief moment, I considered telling them I couldn't bear children, just so they'd be appalled and not bring it up again. And I can't even fully express how much it bothers me when they talk about me being pregnant, having kids, or, with just as much regularity, how much they think I hate kids. I even have an on-and-off serious dislike for one coworker because she seems to take just too much glee in teasing me about it. And it seems to be a vicious cycle of behavior, because I do sort of play it up when they tease, loudly proclaiming that there's no way in hell I'll ever get pregnant, sure don't want to ever be a mom, etc.

So it happened again today during our staff meeting. They ganged up on me again, asking when I was going to get pregnant, and I just couldn't take it. I had some serious hate on for the world this morning due to hormones, and I got a little snappish with them. I've always wanted to get snappish about it, though I just don't really have the nerve, plus, I know all about how the point of teasing is to get to someone. And in the end, the one I don't particularly like, said, "aw, we jest messin' witcha."

And then it dawned on me. They like me. I think in small part they also like playing with someone who takes herself too seriously, but I think they do like me.

Vocation

I was discussing my work history with my psychologist this week. She was surprised to learn in my former career, I was an editor, because it's such a vast departure from social work. But in her reaction, and some of her comments, I felt like she thought I was much more suited to editing than social work. That bothered me.

She asked if my job right now was a vocation or a job. I think that's a pretty stupid question. I'm not sure why anyone would work in domestic violence for the paycheck.

So it is a vocation. I didn't need to explain to her what sheer joy it brings me, being able to give a woman help and safety, and hope. She understands. It's probably part of what she loves about her job.

But what if I am thoroughly unsuitable for the work? What if it turns out I really really suck at my vocation? Is it possible to suck at your vocation?

If that's true, am I deluding myself? Should I go back to editing, because order and definite right and wrong (I know that comma goes here; I know this should be capitalized.) makes me happy? Sitting at a desk for more than an hour reading boring articles made me homicidal. No matter how many mistakes I was able to find.

In the end, I think my psychologist just can't figure me out, and she's nonplussed, because she usually can pigeon-hole people pretty quickly. She said she sees me working one job and volunteering at a wildly different one. Big fat duh. But I think her impression of my different interests is that I haven't settled on a particular path in life, and that's the part that mostly bothers me.

I see my future as wide open because I don't limit myself. (I even have Librarian on the back burner for a mid-life career.) And I don't see that as a bad thing.

Workity work

Pro: Running into the executive director and program director in the copyroom after hours scores me major suck-up points.

Con: Still being at work at 7:30 in the evening sucks ass.

I sure do hate being so busy; I managed to cram an extra work day into the past two weeks, so I don't have to take any vacation time for my vacation day tomorrow. But late work always seems so productive. The hours crawl until 4:30, but if I stay after, suddenly it's dinnertime, and I'm still flitting around, getting things done.

I wonder if this means I don't use my time wisely. I suspect that's the case, though I'd prefer to consider myself overworked. After hours, things seem more relaxed. I have no deadlines but the next day.

On the stressful work front, I am not longer terrified and speechless at the feet of my Spanish-speaking client. What little I knew is coming back to me, though it's heavily peppered with French, thoroughly confusing both me and her. While most of me hates it, and feels frustrated at the language barrier, I get so excited when I'm able to say something. I was sssooo excited by Yo no trabajo manana. Hasta lunes! With trilling Rs and soupy Ns with tildes and everything.

Part of the reason why I worked so late was at 5 o'clock, she came to me with her WIC voucher, and I decided it was best to take care of then, instead of making her wait until Monday. We went to Winn-Dixie, where I remembered jugo, and learned the really complicated word for "eggs." And I got to make faces at the sweetest one-year-old I've ever met, who I am trying to win over so she doesn't cry when I want to pick her up. I sure do love well-behaved children.

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.

Done

Spending the evening cleaning the apartment is a pretty mild (no, nonexistent) way to celebrate being done with the semester. This time last year, I was two pitchers into the evening and on my way to Delilah's with classmates, some of whom have now become good friends, and some of whom, well, I drank too much to remember who those others were.

It's different this time, because I still have to go to the police department tomorrow and instead of the usual slow, lazy Friday, I have four families to see. I don't get a full month off to laze about and forget entirely about the internship. Simply taking away the classes relieves some of the workload, but not a lot.

This semester, I slacked off hardcore. I didn't love school last year, but this year it has been torturous. I'm scared to death about what kind of job I'm going to be able to score come May, but I'd give anything to be there now and not have to suffer through 146 more days. You know, not that I have a minutes, nay, seconds, countdown going in my cell phone countdown function.

I know so many people who would be professional students if they could afford it. I'm not one of those. I'd rather apprentice. There's a certain social work-y sensibility that I'm getting through being in school, one that I definitely didn't pick up as a case worker in Alabama (far from it), but overall, I find most of the classes pretty worthless and the internships as valuable as gold.

I suppose those experiences are what will make me a good social worker, but generally, I'm pretty annoyed at spending so much money (and I even went to the cheap school!) and putting us in debt for years to come. I think if I had gotten a bachelor's in social work, I might never get my masters. But sadly, they usually don't employ social workers with a background in English literature. Plus, I don't think I would have made a very good social worker when I was 21. As much as I gnash my teeth at starting over again in my 30s, at least I have the maturity now. I just would like the money to match that.

I guess I'll start looking for jobs in the next month or so, which freaks me out, but I have a plan that, while not securing Tim and me any health benefits, will at least give me some experience. I'm going to work registry at psych emergency rooms, doing hospital intakes. I suspect they'll hire any fool with a degree to do registry work, so it's a good way to get some experience and my foot in the door. Having at least a teeny plan makes me feel better, not quite as terrified.

So, on to Christmas.

Grad school

It really feels like the closer I get to grad school, the less I know what I want out of it. I recently turned in my field placement questionnaire, which asked my interests so that my advisor could assist me in finding an internship for my first year. Pinning down one agency for an entire year . . . and the only thing I know for sure is that I want to work with women, and I'm ready to experience something besides domestic violence.

I'm stressed out. Part of me wants my advisor to say "Here. This is it. This is the place you will work," but then I hear myself piping up, "but what about the addictions field? What about working with adolescent girls? What about the LGBT community?"

I've been corresponding with a second-year student in the past few months who is a month away from graduation and feels similarly adrift looking for an area to pursue post-graduation. He told me he discussed this with a professor who said, "the paradox of social work grad school is that by leaving more confused/unsure of what direction to go now, you can be assured that you are being educated in social work."

I'm not sure how I feel about that, but I'll keep reminding myself of it as I try to grasp firmly for a concrete idea of my future.

Lately, I've been thinking more about therapy. I have always thought that's the direction I'd end up, but I have been doing so well with case management that I considered seeking out more opportunities for that. It keeps me busy. It sooths my problem solving brain. I like hearing someone state a problem and being able to figure out how to "fix" it. The idea of wading through a nebulous conversation about feelings terrifies me slightly. Check that. A lot.

I don't know why. I'm no stranger to therapy myself. I suppose the idea that I wouldn't be able to offer neat, tidy answers to people's questions (Unemployed? Have children? Apply for Public Assistance!) sets me on edge.

But lately, I've also been paying closer attention to the kinds of interactions I enjoy more with my clients. Some breeze into my office and say "yes, no, maybe" when I ask what they've accomplished in the past week, and I give them assignments for our next meeting. Others spend time going over issues or paperwork I can assist with. And still others sit down to just talk about emotions and feelings they have.

And it's the talky ones I enjoy the most. I feel more connected to them, involved in their situations, and less bored with my job. I think I should explore therapy more.

Complaining

I can get behind complainers. I understand them, and the impulse. I am one, sometimes. At a certain point, of course, it's too much, and you don't want to hear it, you just want to tell them to get off their asses and doing something about it, but for a while, it's ok.

There's a lot about work that I need to complain about, in order to get through it. I had a big bitch session with a co-worker today, and I left feeling refreshed and happier. We understand each other. We're not really friends, though we work comfortably together and like each other. I know not to look her way during staff meetings when certain issues come up, because I know she'll be looking at me with an eyebrow raised and I'll start laughing.

I think it works because we both have similar frustrations with aspects of our jobs, but we both know how much the other cares, and that complaining doesn't really indicate a lack of dedication. At my last job, I worked with a bunch of complainers. Most Fridays we'd end up bitching about work over beers. It seemed worse. It made me think, "what the hell are we doing working here if we hate it so much?" We sure didn't get paid enough (one of the key points complained about) to work through the apathy and annoyances. This seems different to me, I guess because at the heart of it all, I really do love my job.

Though sometimes we come up with ways to change the things that frustrate us, often we don't. But it does help to vent about them and then get on with things.

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.

Chicago

What a day.

I don't know if I can even say that with much emphasis, because lately, every day has been one of those days. I came to the realization today, though, that I am not well suited for the job I have. It's just not in my nature to be aggressive and assertive, which the job really demands in order to do it effectively. And I hate thinking I'm bad across the board, when I know there are parts of my job that I really excel at.

So I was thinking about my future. Thinking about the possibility of returning to Chicago instead of sticking it out here and doing my graduate work through an extension program. And I came up with a selling point: Loyola has a really great clinical program, meaning I'd get a lot of experience in counseling, and then maybe I wouldn't have to work in a shelter again.

I also had an odd experience with a co-worker that made me think, "what era do we live in again?" I can't and won't make a blanket statement about how backwards the South is, but one co-worker sure is.

So I had these anecdotes as ammunition for talking to Tim tonight. "I'm not trying to pressure you, but I just have a few more reasons why Chicago would be a good next move . . ."

I didn't have a chance to tell him before he said, ". . . I've been thinking about animals in the zoo. How they're raised there, and if you take them out of the zoo, they don't thrive. That their habitat has become the zoo. I think maybe the Ellie habitat is hard wood floors, elevated trains, and tall buildings . . ."

And so we talked seriously about Chicago--what we need to do to prepare, how we would survive there on a grad student's loans and a new actor's sparse salary. Where we would live. Where we'd work. How we might have to base our lives out of his mom's basement for a month or two--a definite time limit there--to save up some money. How we'd bike to work and school to save on train fare and gas money.

Later, when I thanked him for the talk, I said, "It's good to at least talk about. I'll try not to focus on it too much and think it's a done deal" (because I have a tendancy to assume that when we talk about things, that means we decide to do them.)

And he said, "Well . . . isn't that what it sort of seems like it is?"

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.

Being married

I never knew I'd end up in the sort of relationship where I could tell my husband: "I'm having a hard time being married this week," and have him hug me and say, "I know, I know," instead of freaking out and thinking we needed a divorce or a couples therapist.

Because he knew exactly what that meant: I'm having a stressful week, and I really wish I could be able to come home and be absolutely alone.

Last week was possibly the most stressful week I've ever had at work. Even the first week of work, when I didn't know what I was getting into, or how I'd ever be able to do the work--that was less stressful than last week.

I'm used to hiding out with my stress. Being alone, not having to interact with other people, being mindful of every second I have to myself, that's the way I de-stress. It would be so much easier if I could just take a bubble bath, or work out my aggressions at a gym, but I can't.

The good part about it, though, is that Tim is the same way, so he gets my need for being alone. The better part is that talking about it: the stress, the difficulty in learning to deal with having another person there at all times, remaining two people when at times it feels like we're one--it makes me appreciate what an amazing, rare connection we have, and then I'm glad to be married. It's pretty fucking awesome.

Oh, work

So, yeah. I don't work in the best neighborhood ever. Maybe I'm overly paranoid, but I hate that our car has distinctive bumper stickers so people remember it. I am thankful every dark evening that I leave work that I'm driving out of a secured parking lot, accessible only by key code, surrounded with chain links topped by razor wire. So I was freaked when someone I drove to DHR this week rolled down the passenger window and hollered out when we passed a porch filled with guys a few houses down from work. "Oh, they know what this place is," she said matter-of-factly. She and another woman have struck up a friendship with them--god only knows who they are.

I just don't get it. Some people's thought processes don't connect in the way mine might, which is, "don't flaunt yourself all over the place, talking to strange men, if you are trying to convince other people that you are in danger and scared for your life in the first place."

She probably knows, though, in some small way that her behavior is inappropriate, because she skipped out today when we were supposed to meet. Maybe she thinks if I can't find her, I can't tell her to leave.

Talking about work

So I know I'm not really supposed to talk about work. (You can't, after all, review confidentiality policies with clients a million times over without absorbing a bit of the seriousness of it.)

And I get that. It would take some serious dense-ness to reveal client info like names, etc.

But I wonder, too, if even talking in vague terms breaks the code of ethics I am professionally obligated to abide by. It makes me wonder, in extreme instances, about coping.

My coping mechanism is this: I talk to Tim. Sometimes I don't even need him to listen. I just need his physical presence beside me as I open my mouth and release all the (couched in vague, unspecific terms, of course!) pent-up stress of the day. (Because keeping it inside will kill me, and that would make me pretty ineffective at my job, right?) Then sometimes I need him to coach me. This typically occurs when something happens at work--whether it be with a client, co-worker, or supervisor--that I am unsure how to deal with. At my previous job, it was usually coaching about how to stand up for myself, because I am generally shit at doing that.

I always feel so much better, so much more confident after those talks. How could that be wrong, or unethical, when it helps me be a better person/better social worker?

But my gut will usually tell me if I've crossed a line, and I think I may have with an earlier post, venting my annoyance about a caller. I was wondering it a bit when I wrote it, but ignored that and hit "publish" anyway. It was confirmated later, though, when I suspected a classmate of mine, one whom I respect to a bothersomely worshipful degree, had found my blog. Immediately I panicked. "I don't want her to read that post!" I thought, and then the following thought was, "then I shouldn't have posted it."

So I guess I should be more circumspect.

Now all I'll say is, hypothetically, there may exist a genetically timid person who is scared of confrontation, who may have broken up an argument last night, and while not resolving the bad feelings between the arguers completely, at least may feel proud that she assertively addressed things so issues are out in the open now, instead of pretending like she did not hear the yelling.

A good lesson

So I've been seeing a counselor this semester, on campus, half to address the massive anxiety I have about my future (i.e., what do I do when I graduate and how do I not completely lose it with the stress?) and half to observe and learn more about therapy. I got matched with a man who, well, I would prefer not to see a man anyway, but also, I could, really, immediately, tell I wouldn't feel comfortable with.

But I'm stubborn, and had already waited 3 months to get to see someone, so I stuck with him once I knew he did a lot of work with cognitive-behavioral therapy. I knew that's what I needed, plus, I wanted to see an experienced clinician administering CBT.

I don't know why I ignore gut feelings. I'm pretty ridiculous about that.

I quickly grew tired of his style, and of CBT in general. But I stayed with it at least a month and a half. At our last session, something else came up (a discussion topic) that I wanted to pursue, and since I knew he also did a lot of interpersonal therapy work (another modality I wanted to see in action), I suggested that direction instead.

I have this idea that because I'm comfortable in general with therapy, it can be successful no matter who I work with. But I had to confront the fact that I really am growing more uncomfortable with him, to the point that I started to dread the appointment we have scheduled for next week.

It's not anything in particular (unless you count that I think he talks too much for a therapist, and sometimes I zone out and miss half of what he says), it's more about a personality fit between counselor and client that's just not working.

This is actually not something I've encountered as a therapist myself--probably because most of the families I see are mandated to see me due to community service, and they don't have much of a choice to see another counselor unless they are very difficult and I defer to my supervisor. The therapeutic relationship (though important) just isn't discussed (though maybe that's only through my failing to bring it up).

Something that does happen a lot, though, is that people will stop coming, not even returning my phone calls, and I don't know why. It doesn't keep me up at night, but closure is nice. And I think I now realize why it happens.

I don't particularly want to talk about it with my therapist. I should talk about it, but I don't feel like it. I just feel like stopping our sessions. So I called the center receptionist and cancelled my appointment. And my counselor called me back to reschedule.

I knew he would. I call my clients, too. Even if they say (as I didn't), "I'm ending my counseling. I'm not coming back."

I don't want to call him back and explain, because I can't even figure out why in the past week, I've gone from being somewhat committed to (though unenthused about) counseling to suddenly being unavoidably uncomfortable with the idea of returning. I just don't feel like dealing with it. I don't need closure, or termination, I just have other things to do with my time.

Yet, because I hate it when clients just stop communicating, I feel some responsibility to him to tell him why I'm terminating. So I know that I'll feel really guilty if I don't call him back.

But I don't want to talk to him! I don't want to feel guilty about someone else's feelings and I don't want that to push me to do something I don't want to. I'd lie and say something came up and I don't have time for it, as one friend suggested, but I know that I would, as a counselor, probably push some more to get my client back in session. And I don't want to go through that myself.

Ugh. I feel like an idiot being bothered by all this.

But it's a fantastic lesson on what my clients could potentially be struggling with as well. It gives me great perspective.

I love Monday nights

Monday nights have become my special treat. Coming off the weekend, I'm ready to work again, but about halfway through Monday, I realize it's not this night I have to work, it's the next. No matter how much I like my job, the Tuesday night deadline looms for when I have to put on my pajamas, pack up my overnight bag, and drive to work.

But Mondays, I have off. No matter that most days, and most evenings, too, I have off. There's something different about Monday. I make my dinner and find something to watch on TV. The whole evening stretches ahead of me, and I love being at home with the kitties.

Finally

The past month and a half has been so stressful. I felt like I was suspended in limbo, waiting to hear back on internships, and it didn't even dawn on me until after that it took so long. My whole body was clenched tight the entire time.

And then I found out that none of them wanted me. What a big blow to my self-esteem. It seemed like a waste of an excuse, saying, "well, that's what happens when you apply for the most competitive ones." I started to mistrust my gut, which had told me at least two of the three interviews I went on were really fabulous. In fact, one of them, I just knew I nailed it. I went really quickly into the anger stage of grief with that one. How couldn't they pick me? They must not be the quality agency I thought, if they could turn down someone so obviously perfect for them.

Though I really hate it when people say, "everything happens for a reason," and I generally felt like punching Tim throughout the past six weeks when he did say that, now everything has fallen into place and has seemed like a lead-up for the internship I did finally get.

I think I had focused so heavily on the first three that I didn't allow room in my brain for not getting them, or for considering others. So when I had to, I felt like I was striking out blindly, just randomly picking places to look into because there's no getting around having to do a second-year internship. I randomly called a woman at the Evanston Police Department and she said, "I just offered the spot to someone yesterday. But I haven't heard from her yet. If she doesn't take it, I'll call you back." And an hour later she called me and we set up an interview. Then in the interview, they said, "What do you think of this place? Think about it and call us tomorrow." I wasn't sure, since I'm ignoring my gut right now, but that didn't sound like the other closers to interviews that I've heard lately, which is: "We'll let you know."

I might be back to trusting my instincts, though, because when I called back this morning and said, "I'm very interested in your placement. What's the next step?" the response was, "Well, you just accepted the internship!"

I'm not jumping up and down, I'm just chill. Which of course makes me think that this isn't the right thing for me. But maybe I just burnt out too much emotion with the earlier options, only to have them snatched from reach?

Throughout this whole process, I've been torn. Should I go back to working with adults, or stick with adolescents? I thought internships were for choosing your whim, and getting to do something you might not ever be able to be hired for, but it seemed like most of the places I interviewed needed me to choose firmly. I had so much adult experience, why did I want to/was qualified to work with teens, the youth services organization wanted to know. And with the adult counseling center, I thought, "Now I can get back to my first love, working with women," but felt a pang at the thought of no more teens.

I just couldn't decide, I couldn't pin myself down, and probably that's why, in the end, none of my first choices worked out. But in the end, I can't believe my luck.

I'm going to be working through the police department, with youths aged 12-15 and their families, primarily doing family therapy. What I didn't realize as I started the selection process earlier in the semester was how much I like working with families. Back then I had barely done any family work at the hospital, and now, a few families later, it's striking me as the most difficult, yet most interesting part of therapy. And this program I'll be in is a phenomenally progressive idea. Prevention and intervention work with youth and families in a police department? It really strikes me as working on change from within the system. I love that the police department is supportive of the idea, which really puts the focus on positive interaction between youth (potential) offenders and the police, rather than punitive, "afterwards" interaction. And there are no mandated clients. Everyone is there voluntarily.

Hmm . . . come to think of it, I am pretty damn excited about it! I can't wait for next fall!