Fried Day

One of the great things about having teenagers is that it gives you a legitimate reason to stay up late. Waiting to greet the kid and make sure they made it home alive is a better excuse than obviously choosing to not join the husband in going to bed. Waiting until he is asleep is so much better. Maybe he snores or maybe he has pissed you off. Again. And the act of sliding into bed while he is awake would require you to either have a conversation about the stupid fight that happened earlier or more likely it would mean stoically getting into bed while trying to remain angry but not having the energy to dive into it and not having the desire to make up because you didn’t do anything wrong to make up for in the first place so fuck him. Clearly, tonight it’s not about his snoring. Making the decision to sleep in the spare room feels like too much of a commitment towards keeping the fight going, and might make the fight last through the next morning, when really you’re both just exhausted from a long week of working at jobs that are physically exhausting and emotionally draining for both of you. Plus, again, you get to make sure the teenager is alive and they are pretty much forced to talk to you, at this late hour, especially if they’ve been driving your car all night.

It’s not like this every Friday, or Fried Day as we often refer to it, but it happens often enough that you no longer worry about it leading to divorce. Today, though. Today was brutal. Today, your client went off on you for a full hour and a half, while you were actively fighting off a migraine. It wasn’t a typical client either. Typical clients are sweet and anxious and maybe a little paranoid and/or delusional and maybe they hear voices. Those folks are great. I mean, they are psychotic, which takes a little getting used to, and I admit isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. This client though, is different. This one isn’t really one that should have ever been in our program, because they don’t actually have what we treat and what they have is in need of a miracle. They are ridiculously bright and articulate and what we in the business call “completely dysregulated, classic Axis 2”. That’s fancy talk for someone with a personality disorder. Or in even clearer layman’s terms, someone who is really fucked up about getting their needs met or handling anything that causes a problem and can push every button you have and ones you didn’t even know you had. They can hit on that truth that is deep down inside you, so you can’t just brush it off, like you can when you are around someone who is blindly angry and agitated and you just happen to be in their way. Nope, this shit stings. We are in the process of moving this particular client along to more appropriate services, somewhere that can treat their eating disorder and their trauma and their anxiety and the way they take a blowtorch to all of their relationships. It isn’t going well. Today I was called ignorant, cruel, violent, pathetic, and was told that our meetings are a complete charade. Nothing I said helped and not saying anything was worse and I couldn’t wait for them to leave so I could focus on the searing pain in my skull, rooting around in my bag for a bottle of Ibuprofen that I remembered finishing off the day before.

I’ve done this work for a really long time. As a social worker, I get to be all things: a therapist, a case manager, an advocate, a friend, the “cool aunt” you can trust. Sometimes I feel like it’s been too long, and that it’s kind of a miracle I’ve gotten away with it for so long because clearly I am an utter fraud. There are other days that I can’t believe that I basically get paid to fall in love with people. In the last two days, I have seen several clients out in the community, spoken to three sets of parents, have made calls and have written notes and consulted with coworkers and although most folks thanked me and told me I helped, of course it is that awful session that sits in my stomach. That gnaws at me and won’t move out of my chest. Their words are ringing in my ears. “Go ahead and get rid of me. Slam the door in my face. Tell yourself I’m not a good fit, or that I need to transition or whatever other bullshit you need to say to be able to sleep at night.” Yeah. Brutal.

Tonight, the exhaustion has spread into my body and my soul like a dark cloud. A weighted dark cloud. I can usually keep it at bay by dipping into my bag of tricks. Exercise. Reading. Music. Art. Mindless TV. Food. Friends. Social media. More food. The dog. Chocolate food. Alcohol. Weed. Sleep meds. Sometimes I actually try to use some of the coping skills I talk about all day and sometimes they work. Often, when I think about doing something I advised earlier in the day, I am struck by how completely worthless and stupid and totally inaccessible these tools are when you actually feel like you might be drowning. Or suffocating. I guess those two sensations are pretty close.

I asked my client if they would give me permission to call a psychiatrist that might actually be taking new patients, and that is covered by their insurance, and that is pretty much in their neighborhood, but isn’t quite within walking distance in the rain like they requested. I suggested that they could take an Uber to see this possible new provider, since they refuse to take the bus, and then they reprimanded me for not realizing that they only have literally $2 in their bank account even though they told me twenty minutes earlier that they spent $500 on Valentine’s Day, including this killer manicure. I knew having them sign a Release of Information was really out of the question but maybe I could get a verbal agreement that could cover basic care coordination. They replied, “Sure. Whatever. Just tell me whose dick I need to suck.” If only accessing quality mental health care was that easy.

After the stupid fight tonight, the husband said he was going to bed even though it was 8pm and I may have told him he was being a big baby and he may have yelled about the fact that I just called him a big baby. When you are together this long, it is as if you stop being two different people and you each somehow represent the part of yourself you can’t stand. You might start running the tape that includes all of the projects around the house that he has ignored and all of the little things he does that drive you fucking crazy, but that on a usual night you can overlook because of unconditional love. You are sure he has the same tape going in his head of your shit. You stop cheering each other on, except in the form of text messages when you can add an emoji or a GIF that will express what is too scary to express in person. When was the specific day that we stopped being able to be vulnerable with each other? Or affectionate? Or intimate. When did saying these things out loud while looking each other in the eyes feel so overwhelming?

On this particular night, you may be waiting up for your teenager because it is their birthday and they are out with their friends, informing you that they would rather let you make them a birthday cake and give them gifts the next day. You may have peaked at the scrapbook their girlfriend made them that includes photos and memories and your heart breaks open because it is so achingly beautiful and sweet and it is such a joy to see your son so happy and in love. It’s even more of a joy to see how wonderful he treats this young woman. You think of the comment you used to say when your older son was first dating. “There go those Jackson boys, setting the bar way too high for all of their girlfriend’s future boyfriends.” Sometimes you take the credit for raising such sweet and beautiful boys who so deeply respect women, but you know it’s their dad that they have watched every day. The one who isn’t always a big baby.

Maybe falling asleep on this couch would be the best option. Make it look like an accident. That would avoid the act of getting into bed while you’re still so annoyed, but remove any real responsibility from making a choice to avoid him. But that would mean that I wouldn’t brush my teeth, because my toothbrush is upstairs and so is my night guard. And maybe the husband is asleep now and I could just slip into bed and maybe one of us will roll over and spoon the other one and we will know that we’re both just trying to survive. I don’t believe that we all have to “do our best” all the time. No one can pull that off. I didn’t today with my client. I definitely didn’t with my husband. With my kid, though, I did pretty good. I sent him a text at the time of his birth telling him I hoped he was having a less stressful day than the one he did 17 years ago. He laughed and told me he hoped I was too. I may have told him that I had a rough time with a client and a migraine, and that childbirth was actually preferable because I got to meet him for the first time at the end of it.

Take a big breath. Into the belly. Feel the cloud start to break up a little. I will say a little prayer for my miserable client, to a God I don’t believe in, and will let it go for the next two days. I will go brush my teeth and try to sleep and wake up without an alarm and start all over tomorrow. LIke most days, I will be grateful that my own children are healthy and are struggling with things that are less overwhelming than the young people I see at work. I will know deep down that the guy sleeping in my bed helped make that possible. At least tomorrow there will be birthday cake.

Awakening

The Songs They Sang