Why I do, what I do

Why I do, What I do

For anyone who reads my blog, it can be an interesting yet confounding experience. It’s a lot like how my brain works, sometimes it behaves rationally, and employs logic to make sense of this world. Yet, other times it is chaotic, impulsive and overly emotional. There are times that I sit down to type out a post, and I sit for hours just staring at the screen...waiting for it to magically transform before my eyes into some sort of brooding epiphany of literary greatness. Alas, it doesn’t happen like that...ever. I will admit that there are times, where I plan to write one thing, and end up writing something totally different. So when those times come along, I try to be present enough in the moment to let my fingers type out what my mind is guiding them to say. I’ve recently admitted to some friends that I’m a hot mess, well not so much hot but very much a mess. I shared some of my fears with them, and some doubts and let them into the inner ramblings of my mind...and caused them concern. I didn’t mean to, it was never my intent and I wish I could take it all back. But I know I can’t, and I assume I felt safe enough to tell them for a reason, I just wish that maybe I didn’t feel so broken by it.

With all that being said, the previous paragraph was included to add some context to a larger discussion that I won’t present here but should you feel so inclined, check a post entitled ‘Intention’ for more background information...or not, whichever. As previously mentioned, there was a discussion that I instigated for reasons I still can’t wrap my head around and one of the things that came of it was a question posed by one of my friends, “Deb, I read your blog and I have one question. Why did you choose to go into the profession that you’re in?” I got lost in thought staring at the words and for a brief moment I was like ‘is this a trick question?’ I started typing out my response and then deleted it, just a few more times I did that dance with the keyboard...finally I typed out “that’s a complicated discussion.” But you know what, I’m not so sure that was an accurate statement on my part because my initial response is one I should have gone with, yet I second guessed myself which brings me to this rambling post.

The answer is relatively simple, I didn’t choose this profession, it chose me.

For a quick recap of what my “profession” is, here’s the  alphabet as typed out on my business card. Debra Carlsen, MSW, MHP, LISCWA, SUDPT. In regular speech it plays out like this...Debra Carlsen, Masters in Social Work, Mental Health Professional, Licensed Independent Social Worker Associate, Substance Use Disorder Professional Trainee. Goodness even my eyes glossed over at all of that. It’s a bunch of very expensive letters that I will be in debt with for the rest of my life, all just to say that I’m a social worker, I provide mental health (therapy) and work in addictions. Sigh. I think I just rolled my eyes hard enough to see my own hind end. I work with those who are chronically, severely mentally ill and those who are addicted to substances. My clients are often homeless, broke, beaten and cast aside. They belong to a group that gets targeted first for blame, they are often overlooked, underfunded, mentally, physically and spiritually broken and at the top of the list when resources get cut due to budget short falls. 

Okay, I need to get back on course here and actually answer my friend. I do this work because I do, I like it, it’s important and it matters. I do this work because so many other people either won’t, can’t or don’t care enough to take all the shit that comes along as a byproduct of our society's values and moral standards. There has always been inequality and injustice in this world, I just happen to have been born an empath who let life take me where it wanted me to go. Not because I’m cool like that, but because I honestly had no intentions of living past my 30’s. In my mind, my dreams I always die a violent death. I have always maintained that I was not meant to live this life, either not worthy or misplaced and broken...this life is not mine to live. So it made sense to me, not to plan anything out. I never intended to be good in psychology, social work or addictions...I just kept taking the classes because I was really good at them. One thing led to another and classes led to degrees...that led to jobs and here I am. 

In all honesty, the one purposeful step I took was getting certification and hopefully eventually being an official addictions specialist...but I didn’t really start that process for me, I started it and continue it because my clients deserve better. I seek to better my understanding so that I can help them, advocate for them, show them their worth and comfort and guide them with more than just empathy and compassion. It’s not much, I’m not much...but if I’m going to be here, then I should at the very least make something count. I don’t do this because of the money, or the applause or for the keys to heaven...I do this because I was called to do so and I’m really fucking good at it. In fact, the only time I feel like I belong on this earth, in this body...the only time I feel worthy of this life is when I’m doing therapy with my clients.

I’ve spent most of my adult life pushing people and relationships away, they are too messy, too complicated and too risky for someone who is living on borrowed time. I keep people at arms length because I don’t want to be mistaken in my belief of who and what I am. I don’t want to accidentally start to love myself, find peace or acceptance this late in the game. I’ve lived this life with a specific set of directives that I learned before I could walk and had further cemented in my mind and heart every Sunday. It would be cruel to suddenly have sight granted to these eyes at this stage in my life...I can’t suddenly have everything I have ever known, be wrong. I know it’s destructive, but it’s all that abuse, trauma and self-loathing that has made me who I am...it’s made me an amazing therapist albeit someone who can give great insight to others but cannot apply an ounce of it inwardly.

Rereading this, I’m not sure I really answered the question. Just know that it’s all I have at this point. It's the best I can do at answering a question that should seemingly be easy to answer.