So I've been thinking about some things related to my place of business lately, and specifically in regard to the clients we serve. At first glance you might say that the clients we serve are the severe and permenantly mentally ill adults that live in the locked residential facility where I spend the vast majority of my days. But I would suggest that this is not the case.
First, what is a client? A client in someone who pays you to render a service. They ask you to do something for them, and they provide remuneration for that something. But the residents I work with have done niether of these things. That is, they have not asked me to provide them this service and they are not the ones paying for it. So who is doing that? The government is. Multomah county has mandated that these people be here (via court commitment) and they are paying for their services. It is, therefore, the county who determines what we do, how we do it, and how often it gets done. So who is the client?
There is a second client we serve as well, and this is the employer. Another definition of a client is that a client is the one who gets their needs met first. In my situation it is not the resident's needs but rather the needs of my employer who are met first. For example, the employer demands that we go about treatment under a certain model, regardless of whether or not that model is what best fits the given "client." Therefore, it is the employer whose needs are being met, and before them it is the county.
So what is the resident if not a client? He or she is the identified patient. And as anyone familiar with counseling and mental health knows, the identied patient is never the sole source of the problem or the sole bearer of solutions; they are a part of a system.
It is no different with the residents where I work; they are a part of a system that includes my employer and the county, and all their needs need to be addressed if the identified patient is to be helped. It is, moreover, at the intersection where all their needs meet that we need to focus, and leave the myth that these people are actually our clients behind.
I may have done this already, I don't remember. At any rate, I have long since abandoned Myspace but there is still on that site some stuff I wrote that I thought worthy (well, as worthy as anything else) of being here, so here is some of it:
(8/21/07)
Everyone in the apartment complex I lived in knew who Ugly was. Ugly was the resident tomcat. Ugly loved three things in this world: fighting, eating garbage, and shall we say, love.
The combination of these things combined with a life spent outside had their effect on Ugly.
To start with, he had only one eye, and where the other should have been was a gaping hole. He was also missing his ear on the same side, his left foot has appeared to have been badly broken at one time, and had healed at an unnatural angle, making him look like he was always turning the corner.
His tail has long since been lost, leaving only the smallest stub, which he would constantly jerk and twitch. Ugly would have been a dark gray tabby striped-type, except for the sores covering his head, neck, even his shoulders with thick, yellowing scabs. Every time someone saw Ugly there was the same reaction. "That's one UGLY cat!!"
All the children were warned not to touch him, the adults threw rocks at him, hosed him down, squirted him when he tried to come in their homes, or shut his paws in the door when he would not leave. Ugly always had the same reaction. If you turned the hose on him, he would stand there, getting soaked until you gave up and quit. If you threw things at him, he would curl his lanky body around feet in forgiveness. Whenever he spied children, he would come running meowing frantically and bump his head against their hands, begging for their love. If you ever picked him up he would immediately begin suckling on your shirt, earrings, whatever he could find.
One day Ugly shared his love with the neighbors huskies. They did not respond kindly, and Ugly was badly mauled. From my apartment I could hear his screams, and I tried to rush to his aid. By the time I got to where he was laying, it was apparent Ugly's sad life was almost at an end.
Ugly lay in a wet circle, his back legs and lower back twisted grossly out of shape, a gaping tear in the white strip of fur that ran down his front. As I picked him up and tried to carry him home I could hear him wheezing and gasping, and could feel him struggling. I must be hurting him terribly I thought. Then I felt a familiar tugging, sucking sensation on my ear- Ugly, in so much pain, suffering and obviously dying was trying to suckle my ear. I pulled him closer to me, and he bumped the palm of my hand with his head, then he turned his one golden eye towards me, and I could hear the distinct sound of purring. Even in the greatest pain, that ugly battled-scarred cat was asking only for a little affection, perhaps some compassion.
At that moment I thought Ugly was the most beautiful, loving creature I had ever seen. Never once did he try to bite or scratch me, or even try to get away from me, or struggle in any way. Ugly just looked up at me completely trusting in me to relieve his pain.
Ugly died in my arms before I could get inside, but I sat and held him for a long time afterwards, thinking about how one scarred, deformed little stray could so alter my opinion about what it means to have true pureness of spirit, to love so totally and truly. Ugly taught me more about giving and compassion than a thousand books, lectures, or talk show specials ever could, and for that I will always be thankful.
He had been scarred on the outside, but I was scarred on the inside, and it was time for me to move on and learn to love truly and deeply. To give my total to those I cared for.
Many people want to be richer, more successful, well liked, beautiful, but for me, I will always try to be Ugly.
As far as I know that is a fictional story; I have no idea who the author is. I think about it surprisingly often and it breaks my heart every time. Ugly was ugly on the outside, but a beautiful animal on the inside. I wonder what people would look like if their outsides conformed ot their insides. If all the wonderful, compassionate, not so good looking people I have met had a physical beauty that matched the beauty of their soul, and if all those gorgeous, self-centered people, mean people were forced to see their spirit when they looked into the mirror......can you imagine how fast our values as a society would change?
If only we could see people for who they really are, if only we could try and see people the way God sees them, if only we could love them like God loves them.........
I can't love them as God loves them, but I try, WE MUST TRY.
(9/24/07)
It has been a long time since I've "blogged." I've been busy--very busy. I still am, but I felt that I was neglecting my little myspace site so I had to put something up here. There have been several things I have wanted to write on recently but of course I have missed my chance, and yesterday I was lamenting that I had nothing left to say when my teacher proved me wrong.
Some background info: The other day my baby girl managed to sleep ten hours straight, from 7:00pm to 5:00am. Never in my life have I been so thrilled to wake up at 5:00am, it was such an improvement from what it had been. She had been getting gradually better actually, and I had been very pleased for some time. Last night bed time came around 7:30, maybe 8:00. We rocked and we prayed and we sang lullabies and all those lovely things and she fell right asleep like a good girl....she woke up about 3 hours later. So we rocked and we sang and we rocked and rocked and rocked and sang and sang and sang and I TRIED SO HARD and so many times she looked like she was falling asleep but she never did. Around 1:15am I gave up and just put her in her crib and let her hang out in there while I went back to bed. About an hour and a half or so later she beckoned me to come to her, which I did, and we rocked and we ate and we...you get the idea. She started to fall asleep pretty quick but then....no.....awake. Awake and unpleasant. So we did the routine and aventually she fell back asleep. I just slept on the couch at this point and put her in the play pen; no sense getting comfortable in bed when you'll just be up shortly and indeed we were. 4:30am. We're up. Jenny took over for me and I went to bed for a couple of hours.
My point: My kid is turning out to be the greatest theological teacher I have ever had. How many times has God done for his children what I did for my daughter last night?! He cares for us and brings us to a spiritually healthy point in life (illustration: my kid sleeping) and then we go and screw it up (illustration: my kid waking). But still he comes to us and cares for us and does it again and again and again. To be honest, i was getting a bit irritated last night. That's right, the four month old was bugging me. And there was definetly a part of me that wanted to say "you're on your own kid, good luck. I already know how to sleep so I'm going to go do it." But no matter how bad I wanted to do that, love compelled me to respond to her, to help bring her back to a peaceful place even though she was fighting me on it. God must get irritated with us. He has made so many things so clear, and for those of us that have spent any time striving to live as he would have us we know that the rewards far outweigh any burdens; and yet we try to do it our own way time and time again and we end up crying about our crappy life and God comes, every time because his love for us compels him to.
She is my greatest theology teacher. What am I paying all this money for seminary for?
(1/4/08)
Seriously. I can't get away from her. Britney on the radio, Britney on T.V.....everywhere. I guess she might as well be in my blog too (I'm rather embarassed that it was Ms. Spears who drove me back to blogging on myspace). Anyway, last night she refused to give her kids to her ex husband in defiance of a court order (or rather her ex's representatives, whatever that means). So this got the police involved. The police then got paramedics involved because Britney was clearly under the influence of something. Apparently she remained quite confused and disoriented at the hospital. It's really easy to trash on poor ol' Brit-she deserves it in a lot of ways. I can't imagine the trauma she has caused those poor kids of hers and something tells me that k-fed won't be much better (though he couldn't do much worse). There are two things that strike me though, beyond the o bvious Britney is a bad mom part. The first is that there are a lot worse moms (and dads) out there who just keep on being crappy parents and nobody really cares because they don't sing naked like Britney, or if they do you don't actually want to see it. Some of these parents are going to be bad parents no matter what and they should never have been allowed to have children in the first place. Why do we still consider that a "right"? Other crappy parents wouldn't be so crappy if they had help, but there's just not that much out there, There is some-but it's so hard to get that it may as well not exist. The other thing that strikes me is that Britney is destroying herself, just like so many other young women (who, again, don't get nearly so much attention for it). It's easy to chastise, as I have done, but it's so much harder to care and to help. Making fun of Britney makes us feel better about the crappy, stupid mistakes we have made, but it doesn't solve anything. Maybe Britney will stop this pop music crap and get her life together, learn how to be a good mom and a good person and then tell others how to do it too. Maybe. I realize I haven't introduced any solutions here, just thought I'd rant.
(10/19/07)
like their confidentiality. Working in the industry I do, I have to ask for and sign and pass on releases of information about EVERYTHING. I suppose that's a good thing (usually); I like my confidentiality too. What I think is a load of crap though is people who make some statement about politics or religion or really anything but do so ananymously. For example, the other day I read some news magazine and I think every single source they had "asked to not be named discussing sensitive matters" or some crap like that. if you're not brave enough to say who you are than sit down and shut up! the same goes for letters to the editor with "name withheld." Don't print that crap! As I reader, I have no idea if one person sat down and wrote every article, made up quotes and then sent in letters to himself about them because I can't verify any sources! I realize there are exceptions to this, of course. "Whistleblowers" for example may need to stay in the dark for a while, but really, the rest are just cowards. I'm going to be a bit bold for a second and say that I think we pull this crap in church too. I've seen a number of meetings, usualoly youth meetings, where the leader calls on everyone to "close their eyes" before asking if anyone wants to commit to the faith; this way the person won't be embarassed. That misses the whole point! If you are ready to declare yourself a believer that do it! If not, sit down and shut up (your time will come). I spend way too much time trying to hide who I really am in some way because I am worried about how I will look. What a waste of time. The thing is-even though I wrote this whole thing I'm still going to do that. One little bit at a time, I suppose, let's all stop being such cowards.
Alright, that's all for now. Maybe part two will come along one day.
“I have hairdressers who are gay. I live in California.” --Carrie Prejean
"Well this place is old, It feels just like a beat up truck, I turn the engine, but the engine doesn't turn" One Headlight, The Wallflowers
"I guess I must be wishing on someone else's star, It seems like someone else keeps gettin what I'm wishing for." Someone Else's Star, Bryan White (yeah, really.)
"I'll be long gone before some smart person ever figures out what happened inside this Oval Office." —President George W. Bush, in an interview with the Jerusalem Post, Washington, D.C., May 12, 2008
And to be fair:
"I've now been in 57 states — I think one left to go." —Barack Obama, at a campaign event in Beaverton, Oregon, May 9, 2008
"A myth is a way of making sense in a senseless world. Myths are narrative patterns that give significance to our existence. Whether the meaning of existence is only what we put into life by our own individual fortitude, as Sartre would hold, or whether there is a meaning we need to discover, as Kierkegaard would state, the result is the same: myths are our way of finding this meaning and significance." ~ Rollo May, 1991, The Cry for Myth, p. 15
when i was little i believed that i was the center of my parent's world, that what they did was done with me in mind. i believed that i was the most important thing to them, that my concerns were as valid as theirs, that my opinion held the same weight. this was a myth, for my parents, like most people, were complex individuals with complex lives and a variety of concerns; i was merely one of them and not always the most important one, not even most of the time.
when i was a teenager i believed that i could change the world. i believe that i could do good things and that this would inspire other people to do good things. i believed that people were not selfish, but merely ignorant. i believed that if they knew what was happening, they would act to change it, and i could lead them in this grand revolution. this was a myth. it was i who was ignorant, it was i who did not understand. it turns out people really are selfish; it turns out i am too.
when i was in college i believed that what was good would stay good, and what was bad would stay bad i believed that i knew the difference. i believed in absolutes. this was a myth. it turns out that good and bad often come as a package deal, just like love and pain. it turns out that some things, many things, are ambiguous. how much easier a black and white world is!
i have this fantasy of being remembered, that my children's children will speak of me, and tell their children about what i have done. but this is a myth. i do not remember my great-grandfather's name, nor do i know what he did or what he was like and i certainly know nothing of his hopes and dreams and if any of these were achieved. chances are it will be the same for me.
so what is the truth? it is this: "I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good thing, therefore, that I can do or any kindness I can show to any fellow human being let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again." - Stephen Grellet, 1773-1855 (French-born Quaker Minister)
so i just got done walking with my daughter to the gas station so we could buy junk food. we walked down the road, holding hands, and talking about whatever came our way, which included bugs, string cheese, wind, and carmel pop corn. oh, and spinny dresses. it was fun. she's cute. and smart. that brings me to confession #1: i like my kid better than yours. don't take it personally, i imagine you like your kids better than mine (though for some of you i can't imagine how), but you probably would never admit it. yeah, i think my kid is the best. she deserves someone who thinks she's the best.
tomorrow i will go to work way too early, well before my shift actually starts so i can be a diligent and good employee. and once again someone will say "what are you doing here?" AS IF I DON'T F'ING DO THIS ON A REGULAR BASIS! and someone will say "i don't know why you do this." well, i'm beginning to wonder myself. the second confession is this: if it still continues to not matter that i work hard at my job then i will stop working hard. that will probably matter a lot more.
do you think i'm friendly? most people do. but the thing is, you are probably not my friend. not that i don't want to be friends with, quite the opposite, actually. i'm just introverted to a fault. i lost my last friend some time ago. i don't really know how it happened; but one day my friend was gone. that was the third confession.
i think my life has grown stale. my job, my school (or lack thereof), the pathetic lack of anything interesting that i do--i am so bored. confession #4 is that life is boring, and i don't know what to do about it.
the fifth confession is the last confession, because i am bored of writing this and i think that it was probably a stupid thing to write anyway. it is simply this: i am searching endlessly for the cathartic experience. i was hoping this was it. it wasn't.
so here i am, trying to figure out where i am and how i got here. as a general rule writing helps me figure that sort of thing out, but it doesn't seem to be helping now. in fact, depending on how you look at it, it has taken me at least an hour to make it this far on this post, and at most multiple months. i think i shall just write, and see where i end up.
i find in myself an often inconsolable grief. too dramatic for you perhaps? well, not for me. for me it is painfully accurate. but here's the really interesting thing i am discovering as i process this: i don't so much have grief over an event or situation (though there is that) as i do over the fact that nobody seems to care, as well as the fact that i care less and less.
i hope this gets better some day. and then that's the key right there, isn't it? hope. i still have a little; precious little.
I'm a husband and a dad and both are hard work but the best thing ever. I work in mental health, but I can't do this forever. I am an existentialist and I believe that Jesus of Nazareth died as a propitiation for my sins and rose from the dead. I believe that I should do my duty, with faith in God, without any attachment to the fruit of the action
