Collateral Beauty

I love my job because...

It allows for an unbelievable amount of human connection. Human connection which, in a world full of technology, is becoming obsolete. It is still one of the most important reasons to be alive. Connection is a core human need and, especially during this time in the pandemic, loneliness has reared its ugly head in a way that no one ever thought it would. As social beings we are biologically wired to belong and I could spend hours talking to you about the cost loneliness causes yet, in a generation full of texting and social media, I wonder if anyone would believe me. They say we only realize the true value of something once it’s been taken away from us but I have been lucky to realize this all along.

I am a Social Worker. I work in an outpatient hospital setting with kids as young as 4 through adults up to 22, and all the ages and family dynamics in between. I provide individual, group, and family therapy and also provide virtual therapy to adults. I am lucky to be a part of their beautiful struggles, when they are at the highest and when they hit rock bottom. Whether we are celebrating an accomplishment together or grieving a loss, these are the moments that make the connection stronger.

Yet, one unavoidable part that comes with human connection is pain. I’ve watched people leave, not knowing when I would see them again. I’ve been up at night wondering what happened to the teenager I last saw over a year ago? If she still self-harming? Did she ever graduate? Where would she be 10 years from now? I have randomly Googled names of recovering addicts I’ve worked with, breathing a sigh of relief when no obituary popped up. I’ve had to call Child Protective Services and wonder if I made someone’s life better or worse. There are days when I don’t know if I did too little and days when I don’t know if I made an impact at all.

“You can’t save everyone” is a common phrase said in my field, mainly to the newly, eager eyed young therapists, enthusiastically coming into this field before the harsh reality of the world hits them. Discovering this underground bubble of abuse, violence, grief, and mental illness that no one wants to talk about is like entering another dimension of life, one that makes you wish for that childhood ignorance you once had. Some don’t last and are off to find something more suitable for themselves, and I can’t blame them, it’s not for everyone.

But there are those like myself, who struggled to find their identity, their purpose. Those who didn’t feel complete unless they experience a bond that can potentially change someone’s life, as well as their own. The ability to have a trustful, respectful, and nonjudgmental relationship, which can be so rare these days, if a gift for the therapist as well as the client.

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Take Jamie for instance. A 15-year-old girl I had seen for about 8 months. She was my last patient of the long 8-hour day. As I led her back to my office for what would be, unknowingly to me, the last time I saw her, her mother stormed behind us and didn’t even bother to sit down when she entered the office.

“She forgot to clean the bathroom, her room’s still not done, I saw wrappers on the floor by the TV…”

Her voice trailed on, as she went down Jamie’s rap sheet of all she had been doing wrong at home. I glanced at Jaime, who was looking down at her nails, avoiding any eye contact, but cringing every time her mother named yet another fail, another reason why she was a bad daughter.

“Let’s take a second to pause here” I started, wondering if coming here actually helped or hurt her, having to listen to her faults every week.

“I just don’t know why we bother coming, she isn’t changing so there is no point of discussing it. I’ll just continue to do everything with no help at all” And with that, mom left the office with the sound of the slamming door behind her.

I looked at Jamie with a sad smile. She looked up and gave me that same smile back.

“Thanks, but it’s no use. No matter what I do, it’s wrong.”

“I’m sorry it’s so difficult at home” I replied.

We could have our hundredth talk about her mother’s mental illness. We could go over the habits of narcissist mothers and how she can’t give Jamie the emotional attention and affection she so rightly deserves. We could review what it means to be gaslighted, a speech that has been engrained so deeply in my mind I could give it in my sleep. We could review the many coping skills and methods developed to help Jamie ground herself during tense times at home and update her support contact list. Instead, she wants to talk about the boy she has a crush on at school, and about making the volleyball team.

So, we talked about the boy and I watched her giggle and blush. I encouraged her to continue attending volleyball practice and together we brainstormed other ways to get to games when mom doesn’t feel up to driving her. I pushed her to socialize and meet new people and that one day she would be out of her house and can live her wonderful life without feeling demoralized every day.

“It’s not you, it’s her” I would repeat so often that it became a mantra of sorts.

And then I said bye to her, and watched her walk out the door with her mother. She turned and gave me a huge smile and crossed her fingers, signaling her hope of seeing her crush at tonight’s game. I gave her a thumb’s up, and watched her leave, worried what was going to happen when she got home, if she would be able to continue to stay on the team, if the boy she liked would notice her, how she felt not to being able to give her mom a hug goodnight.

Her mother never brought her back after that session, and never responded to my calls. Every day from that moment on, I made sure to hug my kids a bit tighter at night while thinking of her, trying to force positive energy to leave my body and find its way to her. Hoping she felt some semblance of love and support throughout our sessions. Hoping she learned what a mutually respectful relationship actually looked like and that she understood that she deserved more than the cards she got dealt in life.

I finished all my notes and looked at the clock which read 7:47 PM. I couldn’t believe I was walking out before 8. A red blinking light caught my eye as I stood up to leave. I took a deep breath, sat back down and picked up the phone to listen to my messages.

“I’ll be home late” I texted my husband.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.