driving me crazy

A couple weeks ago I jobshadowed at this clubhouse for severely mentally ill adults. It was awesome. I don't know how much I've mentioned it, but working with severely mentally ill adults, especially individuals affected by schizophrenia, is kind of my dream. But recently I've been kind of unhappy and that causes me to question basically every part of my life, including my plans for the future, even though they really have nothing to do with my grandma's death or a difficult Physics teacher. But anyway, the point is that I became concerned that I would go down the path of social work and then realize that I hate it. Most people think I won't be any good at it and sometimes I worry that they're right.
So I was both excited and nervous to do this day at this place. My mother (who was a social worker for many years) has a lot of connections within the mental health community where we live so normally they wouldn't allow teenagers to do this.
The premise behind this organization is that the mentally ill people, called members, work with the staff to maintain the clubhouse. The clubhouse, in return, is a place for them to eat, socialize, and gain job experience. It's really a cool program and I think it helps a lot of people.
My dad dropped me off at 8. The clubhouse is indeed a house, it's this old Victorian place painted bright purple on the inside and out. I meet up with the young woman I'm supposed to be shadowing and she tells me in a bit more detail what she does on a day to day basis and what the mission of the organization is. (I know it already because I did my research, but I digress.) She seemed kind of stressed and later she tells me that this is because she actually has to do a lot of things that she doesn't really know how to do. She's a social worker but since another employee quit, she's also been having to do all the financial stuff. Which sucks.
Interestingly enough, despite only having known these people for about a day, I still remember their names. However, due to confidentiality and my own morality, I will not be including them in this post.
So she asks this very small man with thick glasses and a bad stutter to give me a tour, which he does, happily. He was very noun-focused. "This is the printer." "Here are some computers." He wanted to know what exactly I would be doing today, and I told him. He seemed satisfied.
Next we had the morning meeting, which includes both staff and higher-functioning members. It's interesting how this particular managerial layout of staff and members working together really blurs the line between staff and member. Sitting at the table, I was not immediately able to tell who was what, even after some conversation had elapsed. Mental illness is a very complicated thing. I found out when everyone went around the table and introduced themselves. It was kind of funny because their meeting room is also the dining area, so some of the members were just sort of there to eat breakfast and were not particularly interested in the meeting. Everyone was very friendly and pleasant. The gentleman with the glasses is also eating his breakfast and reading what appears to be a children's cookbook. He asks me what champagne is and I tell him.
Next my supervisor introduces me to some more members. One is very eager to show me the thrift shop that is the main source of income for this organization and, like the rest of the club, is partially run by members. One woman tells me that she graduated from my highschool. She tells me that the town actually used to be even less interesting than it is now.
Our next job is counting out the cash from last month's kitchen income. Some members help in the kitchen but members do pay for their meals. My supervisor, the woman who went to my high school, another member, and I do this at the kitchen table. My supervisor explains that members really like helping count the money and it reminds me of my uncle, the one with schizophrenia. He collects pennies. I learn that a member was hospitalized yesterday and it was not clear to me whether it was a psychiatric hospitalization or for something unrelated. A lot of the members want to go see her but it is difficult to arrange transportation, as very few members have driver's licenses and even fewer have vehicles.
We talk to an older member in a new motorized wheelchair about his dog. He says that he has not been hospitalized since he got her, and that keeping track of her veterinary appointments helps him stay more "with it". I think this is a very good idea.
I had been worried that I would struggle to interact with members or that I would say the wrong thing, but by this point in the day I've found that they're actually very easy to talk to. Other than trying to avoid the use of the word "crazy" or other similar words, I did not have any problems with conversation.
The member we counted money with sits with me at lunch and she tells me more about her life. She has bipolar disorder. She has two grown children, one of whom is in school to become a social worker. When they were young her husband was in the military and they moved around a lot. She enjoys knitting. She misses her husband. (I do not ask where he has gone.)
After lunch, another staff member suggests that I help clean up in the kitchen. She introduces me to the member who most often does this, adding that he is "one of our younger members", which makes me laugh. I try to help him clean up but I think he really prefers to do it himself. After I complete each task, I ask him what I should do next and every time he tells me that I can "take a quick break, I guess." I washed a dish and took a break. Then I washed another dish and took another break. By the time I had rinsed all the dishes, he was done with the entire kitchen. I felt kind of bad that I didn't help him more. It was funny, though, the rest of the day, every time he saw me, he would stop and thank me for helping him.
By this time, it is 2:00. Time passed SO quickly, probably because I actually enjoyed what I was doing. My supervisor is now ready to do an "HR training". The staff do a lot of trainings to help the members learn skills for both their jobs at the clubhouse and future jobs. This particular training topic is Hiring and Discrimination. Apparently the clubhouse has had some problems with both members and staff while conducting interviews for their most recent position. Not like racism or anything, but asking questions that they aren't legally allowed to ask. This training began in the dining/meeting room, and was attended by myself and the other member I spoke to earlier over lunch about knitting and family. After a couple minutes, another member comes in to eat his lunch, but starts contributing more as we talk about what is and is not acceptable in hiring. My supervisor mentions that in our state, there is no law to prevent people from not hiring someone based on sexual orientation. At this point, the guy trying to eat lunch comments, "Hey! That's not right at all!". We all agree. As we talk about it more, it's clear that he doesn't know particularly a lot about LGBT rights, but his heart is definitely in the right place. We also talked about how some people who interviewed for a job recently were not very respectful of members and didn't really seem to understand what the entire organization was about. This was probably my favorite part of the day because after it was over, my supervisor tells some of the other staff members how much this member participated in the training, and they're kind of floored. Apparently this guy really hasn't spoken to anyone in the past month, much less participated in an activity. I was very pleased.
Things are starting to wind down around the clubhouse. I help make Kool-Aid for some of the members, who are thrilled, and then staff member introduces me to a gentleman sitting in the office drinking some Kool-Aid. She says that he has been at the clubhouse for a very long time and is all about education. Apparently he will tell me whatever I want to know. I ask him a couple questions about schizophrenia and how his life is. He happily tells me all about it but soon diverts the conversation to the topic of Kool-Aid. I did not know that it was possible to have so much to say about Kool-Aid, but it is. He tells me what flavors of Kool-Aid he prefers, how he prepares the Kool-Aid, and which members like Kool-Aid the most. He was really a nice guy and I enjoyed talking to him.
At this point, it is time for me to leave. Emma is waiting in the parking lot to pick me up, and declines my invitation to come inside. (Her loss.) My knitting friend rushes to get me something, which turns out to be a mug with the clubhouse logo on it. It's a very nice mug and I use it often. It was really nice getting to know her. My supervisor wrote a couple of lines on this sheet I have to turn in for my jobshadowing. She said some really nice things. I was particularly pleased that she said I did a really excellent job building rapport with members.
I think you'll think that this was a really boring blog post, and it probably was, but it was one of the best things I've done in a long time. I had a really excellent time and it reasurred me that this is really something I want to do. I really really want to do this.

Dearest Teacher,

You are very mean. I don’t think you realize this, but you are.

Every time I try to ask you a question, you either do not listen very well and answer a question that has not been asked, or act very dismissive as though the answer to this is very obvious, even though you are a TEACHER and we are LEARNING this material. I think you have even said to me on multiple occasions, “Come on, this is pretty basic stuff.” I don’t think you understand how unhelpful and flat-out mean that is. I am FUCKING TRYING. And you sure as fuck don’t make it easy. I don’t understand why you think it would help someone to say that.

I don’t know why you would think it would help me to write on my paper, “THIS IS COMMON SENSE”. I don’t know why you would be so fucking angry with me when I SHOULD BE ANGRY BECAUSE THIS IS MY FUCKING GRADE. It has no fucking effect on you, which is pretty clear from the daily way that you demonstrate NOT GIVING A FUCK ABOUT ME OR MY GRADE OR MY FUCKING FEELINGS.

I don’t fucking know why you would write “ASK ME, GODDANGIT!” (emphasis yours) when I write in a lab that we didn’t do something because we didn’t know how. FIRST OF ALL, WE COMPLETED THIS ASSIGNMENT AT FUCKING HOME BECAUSE YOU SURE DIDN’T GIVE US ENOUGH FUCKING TIME IN FUCKING CLASS TO DO THE FUCKING SHIT. SECOND OF ALL, WHEN I STAYED AFTER TO FINISH IT YOU WEREN’T EVEN FUCKING. THERE.  I don’t understand why you would fucking say that my process is “FUNDAMENTALLY FLAWED”  when I, responding to why I think the data might be a certain way, that it “could perhaps” be because the sensor skipped a few fucking bars on the goddamn fucking piece of plastic.

IT’S PRETTY FUCKING OBVIOUS THAT I UNDERSTAND THIS GODDAMN INFORMATION DESPITE YOUR BEST FUCKING EFFORTS, BECAUSE I KEEP GETTING 100+ ON ALL YOUR TESTS. So it seems to me that basically the only reason why I keep getting shitty grades on these GODDAMNED LABS is that you have all these fucking idiosyncracies about fucking spacing, and WHO THE FUCK ACTUALLY TAKES OFF POINTS for INCLUDING a data table in the write up because it is already included in the packet, which I had no fucking way of knowing would be turned in with the assignment. IN FACT, I would really have no goddamn way of knowing that you want spaces between questions, would I? BECAUSE YOU NEVER GIVE A FUCKING RUBRIC. SO I HAVE NO GODDAMN IDEA WHY YOU WOULD GIVE ME A FUCKING 80 ON SOMETHING WHEN I SEEM TO HAVE GOTTEN 14/15 FUCKING QUESTIONS RIGHT.

AND HEY? GUESS WHAT ELSE ISN’T FUCKING HELPFUL? You actually calling me out into the hallway at the beginning of class to tell me what a fucking shitty job I did on something, even though you already wrote on my paper that this is “WRONG” (emphasis yours) and, as I already noted, “COMMON SENSE” (emphasis yours). THANKS, CRYING FOR THE REMAINDER OF THE CLASS PERIOD REALLY HELPS ME IMPROVE AND LEARN.

EXCEPT FOR HOW IT FUCKING DOESN’T.

I DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT TRAUMATIC EVENT IN YOUR CHILDHOOD CAUSES YOU TO WANT TO EMOTIONALLY EVISCERATE TEENAGE GIRLS WHO PREVIOUSLY BROUGHT HOME TWO MEDALS FOR YOUR BORING AND DIFFICULT EXTRACURRICULAR COMPETITION AND ALSO FREQUENTLY VOLUNTEERS TO HELP OUT WITH THAT SAID BORING EXTRACURRICULAR.

JUST BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT YOU WERE NICE AND WANTED TO HELP YOU. I sure as fuck won’t make that tragic mistake again.

LITERALLY EVERY TIME I EMAIL YOU FOR HELP you don’t reply at all or reply about an hour before school starts the day the assignment I am asking about is do. AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO BE THE FUCKING CHAIR OF THE GODDAMN FUCKING SCIENCE DEPARTMENT?

YOU ARE THE WORST FUCKING SCIENCE TEACHER EXCEPT FOR THAT ONE LADY WHO IS RACIST. You only get to be chair because you are old and have a PhD.

Your class does not make me want to be a scientist. Your class does not make me like science, or school, or learning, or you, or life in general. It makes me want to sob hysterically and give up on all my ambitions because you are JUST THAT EFFECTIVE OF A BULLY. So, congratulations!

P.S. You are the worst teacher I have ever met, a fucking asshole and I hate you.

P.P.S. There are a lot more horrible things I have to say about you but I don't even remember some of them in my blinding rage.

...

My grandma died today. The one who told me that I shouldn't be surprised if she died of a stroke soon. Despite her frailty, I had always thought she would live forever. At the same time, when we left for the last time at Christmas I cried a little when I hugged her as we left. I'm just glad I remember that the last thing I said to her was "I love you, grandma." And that she said, "I love you too." I feel the same as when Uncle Ted died, but worse.
I feel so much regret. I wish I had listened to her more, talked to her more. She always told me the same stories so I stopped listening as much after a while. Sometimes when I would ask her about certain things she would tell me something new, like about her childhood or her marriage. She was actually a literal 50s housewife. She was apparently pretty terrible at it, though who's really good at having five kids?
I wish I knew more about her. I always felt like I would have more time.
I wonder if she believed in God.
She was so proud of me. The last time my mom talked to her on the phone, my mom told her about how well I did at Quizbowl the other day. And she said, "Tell her congratulations! Of course, I'm not surprised, but don't tell her I said that. I don't want her to feel pressured."
I wish I knew more about her.
I wish I had talked to her on the phone.
My mom says she knew that I loved her but she would always say little things like, "I know you have better things to do than spend time with your old grandma." And sometimes I would silently agree. I wish I could go back and do things differently.
I should have talked to her more.
When I was little and afraid of the dark I used to imagine that the ghost of my cousin would protect me from monsters. I imagined that he would stand in the corner of my roomand keep watch so that nothing bad could happen. As I got older, of course, I needed him less and less. But sometimes I'd still think about him, but instead of just him it was his dad, too, my uncle. I guess as we get older we accumulate more ghosts. I have four now.

Sorry for being so depressing twice in a row. Actually, no I'm not. This blog is for me. Fuck you.

goodnight, uncle ted

My great uncle is dying. It's weird to say 'great uncle' because to me when I think of great uncles I think of relatives far away that I have never met. But this great uncle is actually a member of the family I see once every two years and quite like. The non-fucked up side of the family. The side of the family where my cousin died. (This is his grandfather. That's pretty fucked up, isn't it?)
I'm kind of angry about it, actually.
Because the last time I saw him he was already pretty far gone... into Alzheimer's, sorry. And, like, I didn't really know how bad it was until we got there to see everyone. He didn't remember his own granddaughter. I believe he referred to me as "that pretty little girl over there." Which makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
And then the time before that I feel like I was a child (hardly, at 13) and he hadn't been diagnosed yet. I'm so angry with myself for wasting the times that I could have had with him. I'm so angry because the time where everyone was, kind of without saying it out loud, saying goodbye to him, he was already gone. So really no one ever got to say goodbye and the whole thing is horrible. I feel horrible.
I guess I'm mad because I for some reason felt like I had a lot more time. I always feel like I have forever with everyone, that people don't die and won't be at my graduation or my wedding. Which is really selfish, isn't it? What a horrible thing to say. But that's how I feel. Whenever I think about my family I feel like they will always be there.
It's so horrible to think about how I'm never, ever going to see someone I loved ever again.