damning

My mother used to damn my eyes all the time when I was a teenager.  I mean she used to curse me that way, Damn your eyes!, when she was angry.  Most often she shouted it, but I remember more clearly the time that she repeated it several times quietly, because that time she meant it more than the other times.  That time she really was damning my eyes in the hopes I would go blind, or perhaps wishing that my eyes would pop out of their sockets and explode in front of her, a juicy burst of blood and aqueous humor.  So far the curse hasn't taken.  My eyes are alright; I am hopeful they will remain insusceptible to the curse that has been placed upon them.

*

pieces of

Many students where I counsel are Sikh - and believe in reincarnation.  I find this belief so comforting, the way it honours not only humankind, but all living things, as being redeemable and capable of growth.  This morning I was working with a girl who is processing grief over her grandfather's death.  He died several years ago, but she has never been able to talk about him with her family because they do not want to cry, and they do not want to be around her when she cries.  So we cried together a bit, and I learned about why he was so important to her... because he made her feel important to him.  It always feels like an honour when people discuss their dead loved ones with me - because I know this is a sacred space in which we face these losses.  I know it is sacred because I go there so rarely and cautiously myself, with so much respect and trepidation.

This afternoon N apologized to me for disappearing to play basketball with one of his students, and was startled when I told him I thought this was the best kind of counselling he could do, bonding with a kid doing something they both enjoyed together.  Relationship-building.  N is of the mentality that things that are fun cannot be considered work.  I hope our conversation opened this door for him because it is exactly what I want him to do more of.

*

D

Things for D have gotten better.  I am grateful for that.  He has been moved into a foster home where he says he is happy and likes the people with whom he lives.  This makes it easier for me to breathe, knowing that he is in a place where he feels safe, cared for, and can relax a bit.  The other day he asked me how he could access the lunch program after weeks and weeks of telling me he couldn't eat.  And today I gave him the Christmas gifts and gift cards the staff collected for him.  He was stunned.  And brought to tears (which of course brought me to tears).  I have fallen for this kid, hard.  I drove him home today because he had too many gifts to carry them on the bus, and on the way home he told me a story about how his mother sold his youngest sister when they were living in Nicaragua.  If there wasn't evidence to support the fact that everything he has said so far has been true, I would think this kid had to be lying.  But he's not lying.  His mother has done so many terrible things to all her children.

*

cyborgs

On Friday I stopped at the liquor store for wine - because I needed wine even more than usual.  The cashier asked me for ID, which was lovely of her (because the legal drinking age here is nineteen), but when she looked at my birthdate she said, Oh my god.  I thought you were younger.  You've got this Cindy Crawford kind of thing going on.  I think she meant this as a compliment but it's funny because Cindy Crawford is about ten years older than I am.  Since they haven't got a tip jar at the till I am choosing to accept she intended something pleasant, even though it came out all muddled and mixed.  I then went home and aged myself by drinking lots of wine.

*

On Friday K asked me to join some kind of innovative educators mentorship buzzword committee.  I asked him who else was on the committee and he said Just me so far.  I have become that person that administrators invite to be on committees either because they think I have trouble saying no (true), or because they think it might lure others (not sure).  Others were lured.  We now have a team of five who can talk about drilling down and unpacking things to our hearts' content.  I have no clear idea of what this committee is about, but I know Ken wrote a proposal to the District asking for $6000, and I think receiving the money is the main purpose.  I followed up by asking him to pay for me to go to a conference in February, and to my surprise he agreed.

*

me?

I am processing something that is hard for me understand.  Today I asked my team of counsellors not to take their lunch breaks all at the same time so that we wouldn't leave the office unstaffed.  I expected this to be a fifteen second thing (silly me) and it wasn't at all.  It turned into a large conversation about values (apparently we don't all value accessibility the same way) and process (can't we all check in with each other before we go for lunch to coordinate our plans?  can't we have stickers on our doors to indicate we are taking lunch breaks?  can't we please make this as complicated as possible?).  And it devolved into me pointing out (somewhat sharply) that it is difficult for me to want to talk about things with someone who keeps interrupting me.  It turned into a half hour of nonsense.

Later in the day I went back to the Interrupter and asked to speak to her.  I was planning to stick to my guns about the interrupting, but wanted to make some sort of peace because I recognized I said it to her in front of everyone, which may have been offside.

She burst into tears immediately, but not because of the interrupting thing.  She owned that completely and said she was going to work on it.  She was in tears because she said I am intimidating.  I'm intimidating because I don't invite her to eat lunch with me.  I'm intimidating because I'm always on time (???), I'm intimidating because I don't stop by her office to invite her to walk to meetings with me rather than walking down the hallway all by myself.  And so forth.

It's hard for me to process this because, a) I think of myself as a somewhat mousy person and can't fathom anyone being afraid of me in any way, and b) I think this woman is bizarrely oversensitive, and c) I don't like her and I don't want her to want my friendship.  I just want her to do her job.  I'm struggling to process the possibility that I am intimidating.

compassion fatigue

I am okay.  Better than I thought I would be.  Grief looks lots of different ways.  It can mean being at the bottom of a deep deep hole with no way to get out, no energy, no desire to save yourself as water pours over the edges.  But it can also be mingled with gratitude and love and peaceful energy.  (Maybe that newfound peace came from your prayers.  I don't know how to pray, but other people do, other people who care about me.  And I get better at being cared for.)

We made a plan to go away for the weekend to Galiano Island, which is a cottage weekend of hikes and sea otters (I hope) and driftwood and whales (I hope) and sex and quiet and focused time and energy and love.  This is what I need, a disconnection from the daily routine and time alone with the person I love most.

*

I am experiencing what I would call compassion fatigue.  I work hard, and I pride myself on that, but it is possible that I work harder than I should.  T frequently tells me to pace myself, and I see there is wisdom in that platitude that I have brushed off as just words.  I do need to pace myself.  I care so hard and it is making me tired.  Today I mentioned to N that I have three girls on my caseload all of whom are in the midst of pregnancy scares, and needing me to go with them to various medical appointments.  N told me he has never done this in his entire time counselling, which is more than ten years.  He told me that I am doing it so often because I am "too good" at my job.  He said that it's because the kids talk to each other and tell each other that I can do this for them.  It's a punishment, is what he's saying, a punishment you receive as a reward for being trusted, for being good at your job.

When I was a teacher I was punished for being inclusive by having all the misfits land in my classes.  All of them.  It was exhausting.  And my punishment for working hard as a counsellor is that I get to run myself ragged some more.  Pace yourself, pace yourself.  But I want to do the job I do the way I do it.  I want the kids to know I will help with anything, even if it means I work harder than the other three combined.

The situation with D has been emotionally exhausting and now that the other agencies have finally stepped in I am trying to take a step back, take a breath, and let the other professionals do their jobs.  It's not all on me to fix this.  There are a lot of people involved now, and I no longer have control nor do I have full responsibility.  It is a loss and a gain.  I need to let go.  I need to breathe, I need to sleep.  I need to take my own stupid advice.

*

*

still D

My staff collects donations at Christmas for some of our most needy students, and puts together gift baskets for them to take home.  Usually these are students whose families could not otherwise afford presents.  Of course, this year, I have requested a basket for D.  Yesterday I put out a message to staff describing him (without identifying him) as a sixteen-year old boy who would be alone for the holidays, no parents; a gentle soul with no one but us to care for him.  I requested gifts, but I also asked if anyone knew someone who might want to give him a home for a few weeks while the fucking Ministry figures out what to do with him.

Within 12 hours I had gift cards for McDonalds and Subway, a rec pass, and multiple people asking for his shoe and clothing sizes.  These are my coworkers - who sometimes drive me completely insane - and yet, who I adore for this reason.  These are people, many of them, who can be counted upon to bring the love when the love matters most.  No one has offered a home yet, but I'm holding my breath a little because I have my eye on someone who would be perfect for the job...  Come on. Val.  You know you want him.

*

D - again

I have raised D's case to the attention of someone with some power - I think - and this afternoon she came to the school to meet with him and me.  Because he has become so hopeless lately, I was afraid he would not talk to her, would not give her the ammunition she needs to speak for him.  And at first he didn't.  But as the conversation appeared to be wrapping up, I saw a look in his eye that told me he had something to say, and I asked him to say it.  He hedged a moment.  And I niggled (the way I have learned to do with this one).  And suddenly he opened up and spilled it all.  Most notably, he talked about the border-hop he did with his little brother, counting on his mother to pick him up on the other side, and how she didn't show up to get him.

My heart breaks every time I meet with this kid.  Absolutely breaks.  Truly if it wouldn't destroy my marriage I would bring him home and raise him myself. 

The advocate - who deals with incredible stories all the time - said that she has never heard of anything like this young man's situation.  

I don't know how this will turn out for him yet... but I continue to pray for him in my non-prayer kind of way.  I have come to love this boy.  He needs and deserves a chance to become who he wants to be.

*