Watch out - gorilla crossing!

One of my guys came back to visit me today. He has long since stopped coming because he started taking classes at a trade school. I helped him write essays for financial aid applications to begin there, several of which he received, and we worked hard together before he left.

When he first began with me, got some clean time and started to make plans about school, he kept talking about "attacking" his schoolwork with everything he could, with such strength that would completely change his life. He said, "Look Miss Sarah - I got enough things going against me. I'm a felon, and I'm black. I need to start stacking the cards in my favor. I'm goin' in there to attack like a goRILLa, (with the emphasis on the second syllable)." As I'm also in school, he frequently used that description as I told him stories about it.

Throughout the past year, he'd drop by for lunch on occasion, and we'd greet each other by raising our hands over our shoulders in a flexing gesture and growling: GoRILLa. He's at the top of his class, and he has gained a lot of respect, especially for himself. We'd swap stories about projects or classes we were taking, and this characterization would frequently came into our descriptions.

To do your best at something, to attack it vigorously. I hope that for all of us.

Unexpected privilege

How quickly a day can change, how quickly a life can change.

I was heading to work yesterday, Saturday, preparing myself to begin an overwhelming six months of work, internship, and a law class. I had just gotten a wicked speeding ticket from an extremely nice state patrolman, and the morning wind was bitter.

As I got out of the car on the side of the agency, a man in a dark blue jacket and the blue pajamas of a doctor met me on the sidewalk. His phone was open and I could hear the on-hold music through the receiver.

"Excuse me, do you work here?" he asked and I nodded. "Please help me; I... I don't... I'm a doctor at Barnes Hospital and I was working last night. I got off at 4 am and was driving home, and I found a woman in the middle of 64 (the local highway). I've been trying to get in touch with someone who can help," he pointed helplessly at his unanswered phone, "and somebody told me to come here - that you're a homeless shelter?" My agency isn't a really a shelter, but that wasn't the point. Again I nodded, noting his uncertainty and following his lead. He said, "Come and see; she's still in my car."

By this point, we began walking around the building to his car. The wind was whipping around us furiously, and bitingly cold. He continued, "I'm not a social worker, and I don't know what to do. I picked her up and just drove around; she couldn't talk. I didn't know what to do, so I just drove. I went to Hardee's and spent a few hours drinking coffee while she slept." he said. "I'm going on no sleep, and I didn't know what else to do."

He was clearly anxious and it seemed like he had about reached his stress limit, so I tried to calm him. "We're not really a shelter, just have a few cots for women, but it was the right thing to bring her here. We can help." He pointed again to his phone. "I heard that she can't get into anywhere without a referral, I'm just..." he began, and I again reassured him, hoping to settle his nervousness.

We reached his car, and I looked fruitlessly through the window for another person. He opened his driver's side door, and I saw see a bundle of coats slumped against the passenger door. We both stood by his open door, and he leaned in to wake her. "Maria? Maria?" After several moments, she was roused, and he circled around to the passenger door to help her get out and told her that he had found a place where she could receive help. Very groggy, she got out of the car and stumbled while trying to pull her too-big jeans up. I asked her a few questions, but she had trouble answering them. I told her my name, and told her where she was. "Can we go somewhere out of the cold?" she asked, one of the first coherent things I'd heard her say. As I led them both into the building, I asked her some basic questions, trying to learn about her and also trying to ascertain if she was under the influence or ill. The doctor was following behind us, juggling a sandwich and coffee he had bought for her with his phone.

We entered the building and I took them upstairs to the day center. I showed Maria where she could sit, pointed out the coffee pot, and told her we would be serving breakfast soon. I went back into my office where the doctor was waiting on his phone, and when I entered he asked me, "Do I still need to be on here?" I told him she could call herself from my building, that she would be warm and safe all during the day. He hung up slowly; tears were brimming in his eyes. "Let's exchange contact information in case you need to get a hold of me," he said, "and let me have your card; maybe my wife can call you when she asks where I've been all night," he finished jokingly, yet mirthlessly. I took his name and number and gave him my card.

He turned away, and then quickly turned back to me. "Do you guys take donations?" he asked, catching me off guard. After I told him we did, he quickly pulled out his wallet and selected several bills and gave them to me. I didn't really know what to say to this, after all he had just done for a stranger. I just thanked him, knowing that was inadequate.

He didn't say anything, but just stood staring blankly for a few seconds before quickly leaving my office. He might have been having trouble leaving Maria, especially after having cared for her all night. I caught up with him at the security lock and buzzed him through. I led him down to the hall to the stairway, and when we reached the top of the stairs, he slowed to a stop and turned to me, staring over my shoulder. Tears were again forming in his eyes, and he opened his mouth as though to speak. After a few minutes of not finding the words, he gave up and began to go downstairs. After a few steps, he again stopped turned to me, and again, stared over my shoulder. "I don't do this kind of thing," he said softly, shaking his head. "I diagnose brain tumors in children, but I don't..." he trailed off. He went down a few more steps, and again stopped and turned to me. We stood silently for another minute, after which he quickly went the rest of the way downstairs and fled the building without another word.

After saying a few words of prayer of thanks for being able to witness such humble and selfless care of another human being, a stranger, I went back upstairs to check on Maria and help her get settled. She ate breakfast and slept until lunch when she awoke and was able to speak more clearly. I finally got a better idea about what she might need help with. She told me she didn't think she could eat for fear of vomiting, and she was feeling more and more agitated, a token of the DTs of alcohol withdrawal. She said she'd never been in treatment before, and she said no. "I've tried to quit," she said, "but by the time I get to this point, I get another drink." She quietly stared in the distance. "I don't know," she said, "maybe this is God's way of telling me I should quit now."

As the day went on, Maria became more and more lucid and sober, though her legs began to jerk uncontrollably, another symptom of DTs. We took her to the agency clothing room to get her a change of clothes, and also some toiletries and a shower, after which we talked more about what was going on with her. "I don't even know how that man found me," she said, having completely blacked out. I said, "Maria, it was 4 am, and you were walking in the middle of the highway." Her expression became one of frozen disbelief, and I continued. "He stayed up with you for the rest of the night until he found us and could get you help."

*****

This is the kind of event that has the potential to change a person's life. I don't yet know what change this will have on Maria's life, though I suspect that it will, at the very least, stay with her, as it will certainly stay with the doctor, and me as well. What an unexpected privilege to have witnessed it and been a part of it.

Mental Health Hero nomination

A department within this state (I forget which one) runs a little contest each year for the Mental Health Champion in which the case worker writes about a client with a mental illness, their recovery, and the ways in which they inspire other people. There is a recognition ceremony
in the capital for them, and a little prize as well. Most importantly, they get recognized for how special they are to have not given up, to have continued working. There is a woman I've written about before on this blog, Shalle, who I nominated this year. I haven't yet heard if she's won, but I wanted to share what the nomination essay.

Shalle is a mental health champion for both the recovery in her own life and the effect her spirit has on others. Even without bipolar disorder, the forces that threatened Shalle’s successful life chances were great. Raised by a single addicted mother, she began abusing crack herself when she was 13, and for almost 20 years, perpetuated the family pattern of drug abuse and prostitution. In 2008, this combination left her pregnant with her second daughter. She felt compelled, for the first time, to seek a new way of life, foreign to her, in which her coming child would be spared the drama and trauma of her own childhood. She had no example to follow, but began to take tentative first steps towards adulthood.

She again quit using drugs, for the final time, the most important time, and moved into a homeless shelter. She began to access and utilize services available to a pregnant woman and prepare for her coming daughter. She tenaciously adhered to the medication requirements through the uncomfortable give and take of different combinations, and she faithfully attended 12-step meetings. Most importantly, in the face of loneliness and rejection, she began to seek out a different social support system, one that did not glorify the street life.

Upon her daughter’s birth, some well-meaning family members, unaware of Shalle’s budding transformation, involved child protective services for fear of possible mistreatment. There was little chance of this, however, as her motivation to succeed was renewed every time she saw her baby. With the help of local agencies, she secured an apartment, took parenting classes and maintained the many DFS requirements necessary to keep her child. She did such a good job that, at the end of September, DFS decided that she no longer needed their supervision.

During this time, she began to work small jobs, particularly around the mental health center she attends daily. They gave her a small job of doing other clients’ laundry in exchange for a small stipend, a position reserved for someone mature and trustworthy. During this time, she has grown in self-confidence and self-respect, and she treats every person she helps with dignity and care. She continues to fearlessly face her own emotions, insecurities, fears, and ghosts of the past that continually threaten her sobriety. Finally, she is also reaching out to her elder daughter, who followed in her own footsteps of life on the street.

She faithfully and bravely works to reach her goals of sanity and self-discovery. Even in the face of disappointments, she perseveres. She is a model for others of a successful transition from a drug abusing mentally ill woman wrapped up in prostitution, to an independent sober parent. The changes that Shalle is continuing to make in her life and the way she bravely shares them with others makes her the local mental health champion. People look up to her as proof that the sober life can be achieved. She has done it with perseverance, humility, dignity and class.

Beautiful hope

Last Thursday was a day that I was glad I keep this blog to remember happy and good things about the job. Because that evening, I was not feeling a bit of it, neither happy nor good. I had just returned from a trip to the police station with a client, Maria, who was raped several weeks ago. A report was filed that night, and a week later, as the rapist was lurking around her, she called them again, added to the report and a warrant was issued for his arrest. As it happens, this rapist was my client about a year ago, so I knew his name and information, but was kept by HIPPA laws from providing it to the authorities. Instead, I merely stood by her and prompted her to provide useful details she omitted.

Over the weekend, the guy was found and brought into the police station. When they tried to find Maria, however, they were unsuccessful, because she's homeless and wanders. Since they couldn't find her, they let him go. Last week, she and I went to the police station to learn what her options were, but we didn't hear any possibilities. In fact, it sounded like it was just dropped. Just closed. Like it was nothing, nothing at all.

I found myself doing what social workers shouldn't do - take something like this personally. I kept thinking, "This could be me. But for the grace of God, this could be me." It got to the point that I couldn't think about any way to help my client, because any time I thought about it, I felt helpless and weak, and I was so frustrated. I felt further disempowered because I couldn't help her in her case, even though I knew the information she needed.

The turning point came when I read responses to my frustrated post on Facebook. As a social worker, I have a number of social worker friends, and they are connected with resources that I can't think of in the moment. Furthermore, they could offer support, even over a digital medium, and their words were encouraging. The following morning, armed with resource names and contact information, I began making calls to sexual assault and legal advocates, and was immediately lifted up. They were extremely helpful and uber informative, and I was quickly armed with several options for empowering and assisting Maria.

But it didn't end there. Later that morning, I met with another woman I've been working with for about a year. She'd recently left a long-term relationship she was no longer happy with, but this day, she disclosed how controlling and abusive he's been to her, something she'd not before let on to me, I think out of embarassment. He's slapped her several times, and he threw a brick into her father's window, almost hitting her. As she was sharing this with me, I could see the shame that had been wrapping around her for so long, finally being a little bit released because she could share it with someone. Because of the the research I had done for Maria, I immediately provide her with phone numbers, talk to her about different options and -most importantly - reassure her that she was not to blame.

I almost have chills when I think about how all of this came together. As dreadful as these circumstance are, I can't help but, when I think about them, marvel how the seemingly unrelated events harmonized. Through the discouraging day of bottomless frustration, an evening of tears, then loving support and suggestions, a morning of furious searching and information-gathering, and then - right when it was needed - hope. Beautiful hope.

What it means to be a lady

There's a lady, Shelle, that I have that I've known for a few years. I've seen her when she was "out there," the colloquial term that clients give to being in their active addiction. When I first knew her, she was still actively using and prostituting and had attitude to spare - she would lash out at someone before taking their help. This last time has been different and she's been more earnest about her recovery, and more successful. She hasn't used in over a year, after 20+ years on the street.
After several months of working together, she informed me that she watches me and my other women co-workers. She said, "I don't know what it means to be a lady, but I want to be. I want to learn how to be a lady. I watch all of you, the way you walk or carry yourselves, to see how you do it." She brings that idea up frequently in our one-on-ones as she and I talk about her efforts.
She has an 18 year old daughter who saw her while she was using and has begun to emulate those actions. She is living with a man 20 years her senior, and Shelle has seen her on the streets. She knows what her daughter is doing. For a short time, her daughter was living with her. Shelle remained firm in boundaries she was setting for her home, boundaries that any lady would set, and boundaries that were completely new to her daughter. Shelle did not know how long her daughter would stay, and she was trying to instill them into her daughter in the time that she had. At one point, after her daughter hadn't showered for several days and Shelle said, "It's time for you to take a bath. Ladies bathe themselves, and you're a lady. I know I didn't set that example for you when you were younger, and I was wrong for that, so I'm telling you now these things that I'm learning. You are a lady."
Her daughter left shortly after that interaction, again living with that older man, again living "out there." Shelle is distraught with concern about the best way to help and guilt about past errors. Despite this, however, or perhaps in anticipation of the day that her daughter comes back to her, she consistently strives to set an example of "ladyness," while simultaneously learning what it means to be a lady. The changes have been remarkable, and it's a blessing to be with her as she learns these new things. It's also profound to see her put faith in the hope that, though she can't see the effects of her choices now, little changes she makes will reap great rewards. This faith, I think, is one of the cornerstones of the definition of a lady.

Miss Sarah, why me?

One of the religious communities in town offers weekends of reflection and rejuvenation for homeless people in recovery or with mental illness. The folks that go on this weekend are typically chronically homeless and usually forgotten, or when they're considered, it's with distain. During one of these weekend, there are different activities set up to encourage them to think and reflect on the current state of their lives and what they want, as well as have an opportunity to grow spiritually. Every single person to have gone to this event returns with positive feedback and having gotten something from it, if only to feel unconditional love for the first time in their lives.

Several weeks ago, I told one of my clients, Dinky (name has been changed), about the weekend, and because we trust each other, he signed up. As the time has approached, however, he's become more and more anxious about going. Last week, he said he was mostly just confused but by this afternoon, he was truly upset. He couldn't sleep this week and he had a headache. He said, "Miss Sarah, I know this is a good weekend and you recommended me and all, but what if I do something wrong? I've never done anything like this before." He thought for several seconds, and then sat back in his chair. "I just don't know why you recommended me for this. Why me?"

My heart absolutely broke. Dinky is one of the most thoughtful, considerate and honest clients I have. He works hard to know the right thing to do and does his best to do it, even when he doesn't want to, even though he's living on the street. I told him all of this, and as I went on, his body lifted incrementally. By the time I finished, he said, "Really? I'm all of those things?" I assured him he was and that I had faith in his ability. He nodded, a big smile on his face, and said, "Okay."

One of the most special things about my job is that I get to love people. My hope is that the love I show to them, they show to other people.