Sitting in my feels...

 I can't believe it's been a year since I last posted something on here. I mean let's be real, maybe one or two people read this so well, it's not like anyone has been hanging on waiting for an update on my life. Shoot, I'm not even that invested in it at this point. I've been trying to gather my thoughts enough to get a good idea of what to say about them, but it's so much easier to just distract myself with a million other things at this point. For consistency sake, at least the cursor still mocks me with every blink...so yeah, there's that.

About 2 weeks ago I left my job of 14 and a half years because I found that I couldn't heal myself anymore when things fell apart. Which they began to do with more and more frequency all the while seemingly to be allowed and encouraged by management. Once my safety was compromised by a higher ranking member of the team, 4 times in less than 10 minutes and then to be met with "let it go" and "I wouldn't challenge her about it" the scene became clear. My life meant nothing.

Once I realized the damage was too extensive and I couldn't get myself back to center, the decision to indeed 'let it go' bore itself out in a two week, clean my desk out, delete my documents and clear my accounts all while saying good bye to clients I have known for 14 years. Some didn't care, some were angry and some were incredibly sad and sobbed during their last session with me. Every day leading up to my departure I remember thinking about how great it was going to feel to quit, but it was the opposite that happened. When it came to the exit interview, I had dreamed a thousand dreams about what I would say when leaving, with every intent to metaphorically 'burn the place to the ground' but when I walked away I just felt empty. Numb. I don't know if I really feel anything about it, even now. I do question if I made the right decision, but I have no desire to return to that level of purpose driven chaos. 

When a client with a gun is encouraged to come into the office.

When a client is blocked by another member of the staff from his only means of exit, and there are no questions.

When a member of the staff using authoritative language belittles this client and directly violates every safety training in the history of conflict management...and there's no follow up. 

When a client is standing 3 feet from you, after pacing and yelling and showing every physical indication of hostility and aggression and the only thing between you and death is a client in crisis who decides to keep his .45 caliber in his pocket.

    

That.

That is when I knew I had enough.

That is when I finally realized how broken I was. 

After all the turmoil, the lies, the backstabbing, the games, the psychological warfare...I was able to heal after those...some of them still taking place the day I left.

But that moment, that person (not client) who I should have been safe with...compromised my life in a way that no client could. That's when I heard, or rather felt the breaking of my soul, my ideas and my future break. 

I was finally done and while there is some level of closure, it is hard to navigate my life without PACT and the clients that brought so much growth into my life. Who am I now? Why do I exist? I haven't found my new identity yet, I'm still in shock of how different life is for me without it in my life, things feel so much more stable. It's odd really, I've been so used to existing in a stage of disfunction that the notion something different is out there...well, that's just crazy making.

So here we are, today and it's been 2 weeks without PACT in my life. I'm no closer to feeling that I made the right decision but I'm oddly at peace with not knowing. What's done is done and I need to learn how to just sit in my feels and work it out. 

If you need me, I'll be sitting on the rock near the drift wood looking out at Possession Sound, watching the waves kick off the ferry only to meet their end in the pebbles that have been ground smooth by the roughness of the surf.

The Journey

There’s been a crushing in my soul, walking through this life.

With each footstep I hear the breaking of withered and discarded branches much like my bones as they slowly wither and weaken fractured and brittle.

Still I press on, sure to find the path that was once promised in a whisper, like the passing breeze that so effortlessly skims the tiny hairs on my skin.

It’s not like I’m lost, I’m right where I’m supposed to be. 

I’ve been waiting for my life to start, watching everyone around me going through motions that are familiar yet foreign to me. 

Still pressing on, I can feel the bark crumble as my hands graze the towering trees, bracing myself for the journey before me, it’s true I agreed to take this on, but sometimes I clutch my chest with a pain of loneliness that feels world ending.

The birds are singing, I know they are there despite not being able to see them and I can hear animals playing in the distance.

There is life here. 

There is life all around me, so why do I feel so amiss?

With each step I remember bits and pieces of my life, playing in the background like an audience laugh track in one of those cheesy sitcoms.

As I lean against old growth, a tree that has seen generations of people live and die, storms and fires, a giant living reminder that we have a purpose, that there is a design and destiny for each and every living thing on this planet. 

If I close my eyes, I can hear the beating of a joined heart. 

Again I am reminded that there is life here. I dare say there is love here.

It’s just a small break, a quick moment that I take to rest and I find curiously that the way behind me has already overgrown with vines and debris.

I chuckle to myself and say outlaid to no one in particular, “nature will always take back what belongs to her.”

Knowing I must press on, I stand up straight patting the giant structure that has stood in the same place day in and day out, taking what life gives it and still stands strong.

“Thank you” I say and take the direction my heart pulls me. I have no destination yet there is a pull of my soul that calls to me to move forward. 

My arms and hands are scratched and bloody, my clothes are torn and ripped.

I can feel the sting of sweat as it drips into the open wounds, I stumble over a tangled root system and without thinking I say “oh I’m sorry” and I get up, brushing myself off and suddenly I see myself as if I am in third person. Like I’m looking at myself in a mirror except there is none in this forest of nothing. 

Laughing out loud I make some stupid star wars joke about Luke meeting Yoda, and of course I laugh harder because I think I’m hilarious.

It is then that I notice the silence that surrounds me, there are no birds chirping or playing in the trees. 

No animals in the distance and suddenly I feel nothing. 

No comfort to guide me, no destiny to search for.

The vision I see before me, matches how I feel inside.

Torn, ripped, tired, old, dirty…wasted.

Blinking to clear my eyes I realize that the birds have returned, the noises of the forest bring sudden comfort to my weary soul.

I remember that I am on a journey and so I pick up the pace, marching on with great intent to somewhere I do not know.

The brush is heavy, the path thick, the branches crack and here I am chuckling to myself because it’s easier to laugh than to cry.

I’m not lost, I know there is a path. I know there is a plan. I know I must suffer and fight and prove my worth but when does it get easier, and why does everyone else seem to have endless direction and little hurdles to overcome…

Where am I going?

Why can’t I just stay still…

I agreed to this, much like standing tall and pledging oneself as tribute.

I know that it will get harder to press on.

I know that there will be moments of sadness and grief.

I agreed to carry the burden of this souls life.

It just seemed easier when I was standing beside you, sharing in your confidence and strength.

There was nothing promised, aside from your love.

That was more than enough for me…at the time.

But the forest and veil are so dense at my age, it feels like an eternity since I looked into your eyes.

I pledged my loyalty, ever so sure I could handle the journey.

There are times I find the path a little easier to navigate, but find that the harder I press on, the thicker the thorns become. 

Still pulling at me like I’m a sworn enemy they pull at me and my mind races to times in my life when I was corned, prey for someone with more power than me.

Tears no longer fall when those memories beckon me, my lips purse and there’s growl from somewhere deep inside me.

“I’ll be damned if I let you keep winning.”

I pick up the pace, stepping harder…with more intent.

There is a nagging feeling that I am lost but I am confident that I am not.

But I’m so out of touch, there’s no internal hum or rhythm and I’m disconnected from the energies around me.

Closing my eyes, again I remember that I agreed to this. I volunteered for this mission. I was given everything I would need prior to departure. 

Use your skills, remember your worth, love yourself. 

Take the path before you. 

I am exactly where I am supposed to be.

All will be made clear in a time and place that I can be receptive to revelation and understanding.

It is humbling to realize that I am not ready, but standing still is not an option. There is always a way.

It just might not be the way I want or feel I need.

Breathing in deeply, with eyes wide open.

Smelling the air, I recognize the scent and joy feels my heart.

I’m not lost.

I’m right where I’m supposed to be. This is where I found you. This is where you’ve always been.

Always patiently waiting for me to return from whatever journey I got distracted from. 

With no anger or malice you greet me.

I confess my fear of what I dealt with, and cry angry tears for feeling so abandoned.

Sobbing I look to you, hoping that I am done with this mission. “Why can’t I go home now, haven’t I done enough?”

I’m reminded of the friends who have walked this journey with me, the laughter and love they provided.

The guidance of my mother, ever my supporter and guiding light.

I’m directed back into the thicket, “there is more you must learn.”

“But I’m so tired.”

I’ve given up before I even start this part of the journey, dragging my feet and feeling heavier than gravity would even allow.

I feel the pull again, the pull of joy and happiness…clutching my chest I nod my head…

“I’m coming.”

Photo Tamina-Florentine: Forest Photography Magazine.

Metamorphosis

Yeah, I know it's been a hiccup since I last wrote...sometimes that's just how my mind works. There are days where I have so many thoughts I can hardly sort them out, other days the silence can break my sanity like a dried twig on the forest floor. There's been so much going on that I really have struggled trying to wade through what's important, what's extra and what's waste. I'm still working for two different non-profit organizations and honestly they operate like night and day. It really and truly is a culture shock for me not just because of different operating systems, caseload distributions, funding sources and standard operating procedures but the stark contrasts when it comes to treating employees and clients. I understand there are multiple reasons for said 'stark contrasts' but every week, I almost feel like I have to start over with regard to comprehension and acceptance of guidance and support. It's hard to explain, but honestly is traumatic to a degree, like whiplash...all the while I do realize what a blessing it is to have two jobs, I in no way overlook that. 

The other aspect of life that has pulled me in other directions continues to be my mother, her health and safety and the seemingly never ending repercussions from her TIA, Sepsis and then Ileostomy and resulting take down. This last year, while still being 365 days...has left mother aged more than the amount of time it takes the revolve around the sun. I think for every month, she aged 6 extra which has left her a little more pale, a little less certain with her steps and weak. I know she struggles with this on many fronts, not just because she feels tired, weak or fragile but for every oddity with her physical activity there is equally some level of emotional and psychological impact that no one else sees...but I know it's there. I know she misses her independence, the freedom to be safe in her own home, to be left alone for lengthy amounts of time and in simple tasks like going to the grocery or craft store. I also realize that I have caused some of the worry and concern by not letting her do the things she used to, for not letting her try...because I don't want her to fail. Why didn't health class teach us about caring for our parents? Why was the focus on the stupid egg or bag of flower? No one bothered to teach us about this end of the life spectrum. 

#fail

Honestly, getting old sucks ass. It's true that being an adult is pretty awesome but the 40's are by far the worst experience yet. And what's worse is the fact that while our bodies continue to fall apart and degrade our minds still think we're in our 20's...just with a lot more forgetting involved. I may be sharp as a tack with a lot of things in life, but there are times I don't think I could find my way out of a wet paper bag without help. I can remember the most obtuse things from my childhood, I can readily access any number of locker combinations from middle and high school, I can tell you my teachers names from elementary school, and with little encouragement pull up the artists and song titles to the oddest 80's songs...but can I remember what my password is for anything on the first go through...NOPE. Nooooope.

With all that being said,  I have no lesson to pass along with this post. No inspirational story or lecture about treating each other with respect and love. Not today...not this week...my soul is empty and tired from trying to pretend that everything fine. 

Because things aren't fine. They haven't been for a long time, and it would be a mistake to continue to pretend that life is grand and we are all amazing and blah blah blah...

But this I will tell you...I have an amazing girlfriend. She listens, she cares, she supports, she loves, she guides without pushing, she encourages, she leads without pulling, she lets me be me and stays when I try and push her away. She holds me like a butterfly in the middle of metamorphosis, careful to not hold too tightly or too loosely, but sheltering me from the storm while I figure my shit out. Which I guess if I stick to the visual example, she holds me while I vomit all over myself and then emerge beautiful. Yeah, look it up...seriously google that shit. It blows my mind what butterflies go through inside that cocoon. Nature is wild I tell ya.

Anyhow, life moves on whether we want it to or not...March has been the longest month/year on record as we have all been dealing with the impact of COVID. No one has gone untouched by the pandemic, and the fallout will continue for decades. Strictly speaking of the mental health toll...I don't think anyone has prepared themselves for the PTSD and Depression that will come once the crisis has slowed. I'm calling it now, our healthcare workers are suffering and there will come a time that we have to pay the price for their sacrifice. So I don't want to hear people bitching about the cost of mental health...who am I kidding, mental health is the last thing our society cares about. That will never change...sadly.

Aside from my two jobs, caring my best for mother and my girlfriend...hopefully school sports will start up soon because I miss shooting sports. There is so much peacefulness behind the lens, it's like time slows down and my vision narrows and suddenly everything makes sense. While sports may seem like a hobby for some, it's a life line for me. It provides clarity, purpose and color in a world that is hazy, misguided and grey. What works for some, does not work for all...and for me, well, photography and therapy is where I find life makes sense. If I'm not doing those things.......

............................................why am I here?

Remember Who Loves You (Rest Well Mauri)

I've been staring at this page off and on since Tuesday, I feel like I have an idea of what I want to say but then I sit down and before I realize it, an hour has passed and I've done nothing...but think...and remember...which inevitably leads to more tears, and the reopening of a wound that I honestly can't close yet. Or rather I don't feel ready or worthy of closing. This commentary is especially hard for me not just because of the sudden loss of my dear long time friend and colleague, Mauri Wilson...but because I failed her in a deeply personal and spiritual way. It's hard to explain, and I'm not sure I can help those outside my faith/religion understand the profound pain my soul is drowning in. 

But I really want to tell you a little about the wonderful soul that this world lost, a free spirit that literally danced to her own drum. The heart of an angel, the mind of a philosopher, the compassion and empathy that only a few could ever comprehend. Even on bad days, she went above and beyond to make my day better. She always had time for me, for others...wise words and perspectives that reached beyond the mere physical world we rush through. There were many days that I would walk the long 4th floor hallway just to provide company knowing full well it would take a good deal of time given the pace and her walker. Even when she was hurting, she would want to take care of me. 

She was never too busy for me, she never turned me away, and she never returned the ill will that others sometimes treated her with. So many times our then supervisor would make jokes about her, make fun of her or treat her like she was slow and stupid, but this is what really makes Mauri someone better than you and I...she never let on that she got the jokes. She never let on that she knew how people were treating her...but she told me, because we had a close relationship and it pained me when others treated her poorly, even when I was less than patient with her, she always gave me 100% of her.

I asked her once why she was still being so nice to these people who treat her so poorly, and she looked me in the eyes and told me "that's about them, not me. That is for them to settle with the spirit, I control my behaviors and I know who I am. They deserve to be loved too, regardless of how they treat me." When the same people turned on me and my life fell apart at work, she answered every call I made to her. It never mattered what time of day or night, she answered. There was never a time she refused me, treated me poorly or like I didn't matter. I've never known anyone who exercised love just as the spirit would guide her. 

And this is where I failed her.

I didn't listen to the spirit when it spoke to me, and it wasn't just once or twice...she had been on my mind for more than a month and each time the spirit would tell me to reach out and call her...and each time I would tell myself that I just didn't want to, I didn't want to spend a long time on the phone and anyone who knows Mauri, knows that the Native side of her is story driven and thorough. I had such a strong pull to call her around Thanksgiving, but again denied the spiritual guidance I was being given. With Mauri there is no call that is short and simple. Yet the spirit continued to tell me to check in on her, and I doubled down literally saying out loud at one point, "I just don't want to."

And now I can't...not ever again.

So I live now having to pay the price for not listening to the spirit. Because I can never speak to her again, never hear her stories of the wind and trees, never hear her perspective on life and I will never again hear her tell me "remember who loves you." When I was struggling with my sexuality and religion she was there to tell me that "nothing is as simple as they make it. We are all where we are supposed to be. We suffer and we learn and we grow according to the plan. We hurt when we fight it." I felt abandoned by my religion and my God and she gave me this book to read called 'The Shack,' that I still haven't finished 4 years after she gave it to me. Every call, every text, every conversation would end with her saying "remember who loves you."

It wasn't until about a year ago that I got to the point in the book where everything clicked. I always thought she meant her, remember that she loved me but that turns out that wasn't what she meant at all. I finally realized that, while she did love me, she was reminding me how much I am loved by God. Or in this case "Papa." It's essentially a story of a man who lost his daughter to horrible crime and his journey to find peace, love, acceptance and a relationship with Papa...who knows and sees all but because of the direction we as humans took our course, must sit back and let us deal with what we've done. 

"So why do I have so much fear in my life?" 

Papa said, "Because you don't believe. You don't know that we love you. The person who lives by their fears will not find freedom in my love. I am not talking about rational fears regarding regarding legitimate dangers, but imagined fears, and especially the projection of those into the future. To the degree that those fears have a place in your life, you neither believe I am good nor know deep in your that I love you. You sing about it, you talk about it, but you don't know it." 

"It was true, I spend a lot of time fretting and worrying about the future, and in my imagination it is always gloomy if not outright horrible."

"Why do I do that?"

Papa says, "it is your desperate attempt to get some control over something you can't see. It is impossible for you to take power over the future because it isn't even real, nor will it ever be real. You try and play God, imagining the evil that you fear becoming reality, and then you try and make plans and contingencies to avoid what you fear. Because you don't believe. You don't know that we love you. The person who lives by their fears will not find freedom in my love. I am talking about the imagined fears you place in your own future. To the degree that those fears have a place in your heart, you neither believe I am good nor know deep in your heart that I love you."

"But what about my Missy and her death?"

Papa replies, "just because I work incredible good out of unspeakable tragedies doesn't mean I orchestrate them. Don't ever assume that my using something means I caused it or that I need it to accomplish my purpose. That will only lead you to false notions about me. Grace doesn't depend on suffering to exist, but where there is suffering you will find grace."

The plan had been that when I finished the book, Mauri and I would talk about what I learned but now I will finish the book and have to talk with her and hope her spirit listens to me, or my words as they pass through the trees. I can't wait to walk with her, and talk about what I'm learning but still just can't let go of the control I feel I need in my life in order to give myself the proof I need to hate myself. I finally understand why she had so much patience, and was never racing anyone or challenging them on simple, needless things. I wish so much that I could tell you how I desire to be like you. To be kind and honest in everything I do, to listen beyond the words and to comfort just by being present.

I have so far to go and now I just feel lost. I know what you were trying to teach me and I know why you always told me to "remember who loves you" because you wanted me to know that Papa loves me, knows me as I am, was and will be. That Papa is with me always, that Papa is ever present and it is I that hardens my vision trying to force control. I know I'm hurting horribly right now because I didn't listen to the spirit when it told me to reach out to you, I didn't listen and I know that you forgive me for that but I can't forgive myself. In my suffering, I hope to find grace and forgiveness for myself...but that control is so hard to give up even if it's false.

To those who never had the pleasure of having conversations with Mauri, I'm sorry you missed out. There is so much more I want to say...and the tears just keep falling and I just sit here drowning in my self made misery. I know you would tell me to knock it off, get up and move on. 

I'm trying Mauri. I promise I'm trying.

I love you. I miss you.

I will remember who loves me.

2020 AKA Shitshow

2020 has been a shitshow. There I said it. I mean, it’s not a surprise to anyone. Between COVID, murder hornets, locusts, Kobe’s tragic death, impeachment hearings, Black Lives Matter movement, the visual rise of white supremacist groups, RBG’s death and all of Australia on fire along with the West Coast of the United states...I think it’s pretty clear we’re running out of time. Interpret that statement any way you prefer...mother nature taking back what’s hers? The universe getting tired of our bullshit? The second coming of Christ? The end of times? Just what we get for ruining this planet?

Whatever. 

My point still stands, this has been a shitty year. 

That all being said, bitching about 2020 isn’t the focus of this post...not mainly anyway. What I really had intentions of talking about is more specifically about my mother and her health issues. Oh, and to mention that getting old really effing sucks. I know I was just like all the other young folks around me...totally in a hurry to grow up thinking that was the answer to all my problems. 

I WAS WRONG. We were all wrong. But I also know that I wouldn’t have listened to anything different, because as a kid...I knew everything. Ha! I knew nothing. I still know nothing, it’s just different nothings at this point. Being an adult is hard, and while there are a great many things that are wonderful about being one, I would be remiss if I didn’t express my desire to just throw my hands in the air, flip a table and yell “fuck this bullshit, it’s all lies!”

Okay wow, I totally got off point there, back to mom and her health issues. This year has been incredibly difficult for her, and me. She’s been in and out of the hospital many times, whether it was for the TIA/mini stroke, her urgent ileostomy to remove the diseased/cancerous part of her colon, the extreme dehydration that had her kidneys shutting down not to mention the next surgery she has to have to try and put back together everything that was messed with originally. We’ve spent more time in emergency rooms over the last 9 months than in the last 10 years combined. We’re both hoping that 2021 will be a turn around year, one that is marked with better health and more happiness. 

Do not think for one minute that I am lacking thankfulness for having my mother in my life this last year. I am grateful for each and every day I have with her on this Earth. I will never complain about time with her, in fact we’ve spent a lot of time together over the last few months. I just wish it were under better circumstances. I’ve prayed so many times to ask God to let me take the pain from her, to change places with her so that she didn’t need to suffer. I’ve cried, I’ve yelled, I’ve laughed...I’ve internally threatened to bite the face off of an administer at one of the hospitals. 

Heck, I’ve experienced feelings I didn’t even know I had...I’ve had every reason to relapse and fall back on my default coping skills, but I’ve been so busy caring for my mom that I haven’t had time to feel selfish or be selfish. The responsibilities just don’t end. Being an adult is no small thing.

Whether mom is in the hospital or out, my list of “to do’s” maintain a constant weight on my back, like an anchor ripping at the bow of my conscience. There’s laundry, ostomy care, bag changes, taking out the garbage, cleaning the house, caring for Cricket, caring for Arson, caring for mom, cooking, shopping, work number one, work number two, appointments, follow ups, testing and procedures, updating family on setbacks/progress, picking up prescriptions and whatever else pops up needing attention. Everyday just rolls into the next.

I’ve sat with mom, stroking her hair or holding her hand while she suffers in the ER. I’ve listened to her moan in discomfort, I’ve listened to and dried the tears she’s cried. I’ve washed her hair, I’ve kissed her forehead, I’ve tracked down doctors and nurses in the hallways because they weren’t responsive enough. I’ve yelled at providers for neglectful behavior and I praised/thanked the people that seemed to genuinely care for her well being. I’ve drained mom's bag in the ER because no one seemed to hear her when she told them about it, I’ve changed her when she needed it because again no one seemed to hear her. I’ve ordered supplies because no one bothered to offer assistance. I’ve shamed the agencies that have mishandled her labs, lost her blood, or not followed through with care providers. I’ve done everything I can to hold people accountable and at each step I’ve thanked God that I have been able to be here for her...because I do not understand how any of them can think a single person of any age can do this on their own. It’s shameful. 

It’s been hard, I won’t lie. I have been in an almost constant state of exhaustion. I don’t get a lot of sleep and when I do, I have mostly nightmares. I carry guilt for not being good enough at being a daughter, coworker, employee, friend, caregiver. I feel weak and empty, like I’ll never be enough for anyone. And it cut to the bone when I heard mom tell one of her doctors while we were in the ER, “I’ve felt so alone.” There was a moment that I think my heart literally stopped beating or at the very least the blood running through my veins turned to molasses. I still hear it like it was moments ago, I cling to it as a reminder that I’m not good enough...even though mom has thanked me so many times for caring for her that I cannot even keep track. It’s funny how we hold on to the things that do not serve us, even in the face of truer facts. Either way, I cried. I cried for so many reasons.

Please make no mistake, I’m blessed that I have supervisors that have been patient, forgiving and understanding when I needed to miss work, urgently leave, and work from home. Having supportive supervisors has taken a massive weight off of me, even though I carry enormous guilt for not being a good employee or coworker. But that is my burden to carry and work through. The point here is that even in the midst of this shitty shit shit, literally and figuratively...there are moments of goodness and for those times I am very thankful and hopeful because each day is one day closer to her not suffering, not hurting, no being dehydrated and feeling horrible. So every day is a blessing, no matter how mixed it may be.

We're not done yet, we have another surgery to complete. More procedures to endure but we're both clinging to the hope that the end of this particular road is coming. It's been years it seems that we've been on this journey, so many appointments and set backs. I keep praying that the light at the end of the tunnel isn't the train. But just as it has always been, mom and I have each other. Come hell or high water.

The Bricks We Know

There’s an indentation, the absence of a mark that should rest on the lines of my soul

A weightless shell, empty and without inward form, lacking design and longing for purpose

A quiet whisper known only to the wind, long gone before the realization hits

Leaving the echo of your words bouncing off these walls we’d built

The dreams we created, brick and mortar dripping with the lies that once glued us together

You leave behind chasms of sorrow

Deep seeded loss reaching every red blood cell, tinting them white 

The knowledge that what once was a known, now betrays 

Preparing for the fight

But the heart stills its beat, the lungs sting without oxygen 

It never fails, every damn time

Just when the next action is assured, the memories cling with sharpened nails 

When you are by my side, with bloodshot eyes

I see it clearly, like the finest crystal on display

Locked in a cabinet for sale by owner 

The only sign that remains 

A future left in doubt

A past no longer claimed

The Hurt Business

Some of you may know that I have a Bachelors in Psychology and a Masters in Social Work with a few extra certifications thrown in for added measure. I’m currently working on getting my licensure for Clinical Social Work and Substance Use Disorder Professional. The point I’m trying to make is that I’ve been in school the vast majority of my life for one thing or another, I’ve lost track of how many classes I have taken, how many chapters I have read, how many exams I have struggled through and how many research papers I have written. And if I’m being totally honest, I would do it all again and then some. I have at least 3 books in mind that I want to write and a never ending desire to get my doctorate in forensic psychology. But let me backtrack a bit before I go too far off the beaten path, because I’m throwing a lot of words at something that really only needs a sentence or two to convey.  

At no point in any of my educational courses, materials or lectures was I taught about what to do, how to feel, how to process or where to turn when a client dies. Sure, sure I’ve taken courses and read books about death, grief and loss...but when it’s a client, it feels different. Not only does it feel different, each one hits you differently because of how long you knew them, the context of the relationship, how they died and what your last interaction with them was like. In the 13 years I have worked at my current position, I have purposely chosen to lose track of how many clients have passed on my watch. Yes, some have affected me more than others, but all of them I have cried over. They have died as a result of homelessness, not taking medications, refusing medical treatment, murder and suicide...and while my heart hurt for each of them, there is one I have just newly experienced and I have found myself in a very bad mental place since I learned of this clients overdose. 

I fully understand, probably better than most that in social work and addictions, death isn’t too far removed at any given time. But I take no comfort in the fact that this client was not the first, and will most certainly not be the last to pass on my watch. I carry regret, anger, sorrow and guilt for each and every one of them, and each chip away at my soul...and I know that eventually I will have nothing left.

Today I attended the funeral service of a young client who as I previously mentioned died of an overdose, specifically heroine. Maybe it was a purposeful overdose, maybe it wasn’t but I and his family will never know. I sat alone in a room with about 20 people, watching photos move across the screen showing clips of his life...before he was ever a client. I learned things through stories about his childhood, what he was like as a brother, a son, a friend. I learned about how devoted he was to the people in his life, about how talented he was in everything he set his mind to and that he took young women in school to dances simply because “they didn’t have anyone else to take them.” 

I tried to keep it together, I tried to be strong, I tried to be professional. But I failed at that too.

I couldn’t stop the tears from falling like angry molten lava from a desperately overloaded volcano. They stung my eyes, and I swear I could feel them burn their way down my cheeks only to be met by my mask and soaked up by the fabric, waiting for more to fall. I could hear others in the room sobbing, and I could hear the sorrow in the voices of those that spoke. But there was anger too, anger because someone so young died for seemingly no reason save it be poor choices and addiction. They talked about how he changed after a car accident, about how different his personality was, how just seemed “off” since that day and I thought to myself that I don’t remember ever hearing about that and I’ve known him for 10 years. I can’t say that having this knowledge would change my treatment of him, but it would account for much of what he was dealing with and how he presented. Maybe I would have been more patient, maybe I would have been more persistent and maybe everything would have played out exactly the same. 

What I do know is that my heart hurts, and I know that my pain is nothing compared to that of his mother, father, sister and friends. Mental illness and addictions are everywhere, and I’m angry that the stigma keeps people from feeling safe to seek out treatment and services and that our society deems those suffering as less than and never equal to. My client could have been so much more, done so much more...yet even with all that said, he was suffering and not just a little. His road was arduous and fraught with danger, pitfalls and landmines. He no longer carries his burdens, no longer walks that path alone and no longer feels broken. Just as one of the speakers today said, “his pain is over, and it is now we who carry the sadness of missing someone who was taken too soon. Remember the tears that we shed in times of sorrow are made up of the same salt and water that make up happy tears and tears of joy. They come from the same place, hold the same composition and each is designed to help us heal. So cry, cry, cry and let the healing begin.”

I was too weak to say this to his parents at the time, so I will say it now.

“I knew him for 10 years, and while I didn’t know his times of joy and happiness, I did see his battle with demons and I saw how hard he tried to make something of himself even when there was little to piece together. I wish more than anything that I could take your pain away, and I am so sorry that I couldn’t fix him, I’m sorry that I didn’t try harder, push harder or insist that he do things differently...but I couldn’t make him. I couldn’t make my will his own and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I am sorry F. I am also glad that you aren’t hurting anymore, and it’s okay that it’s my turn now. I take this moment, this responsibility and I will keep going, keep helping and doing everything I can to carry you in my heart. I miss you, and I will miss you. Please know how sorry I am that I failed you, but I will try harder. 

I will see you again, but until that time, goodbye.