April 2, 2005
We've slacked off on our reporting. In Borderland, things are quiet. Everyone is striving for normalcy, though that is more a state of mind than anything else.
Stew is in California, and we've both had to relearn how to do things. I, for example, can now, on the days I'm not scheduled to meet with clients, stay in my office (aka, home) all day and work, and not see any other people. In the morning my domestic partner is here, and at night, and in between, I'm responsible for no one besides myself. And the dog. And various clients in various stages of panic, but there are entire days when even they are all quiet. They all think I'm working on their problems is why, and they know that to leave me alone means I can, perhaps, work faster. I try to bunch my client visits together, so I can spend big blocks of time on one project or another, and other big blocks of time going here and there. Yesterday, Friday, April 1st, I saw four clients, one of them a new one, and didn't get home until 9.
Anyway, this isn't about me.
This is about our friend Stew. He's doing pretty well. Considering. Considering, that is, that he's in an area where the options for receiving help are severely limited. One therapist doesn't believe in the borderline diagnosis. One doesn't treat people who self-harm. (But who then told Stew when to come back, and about the self-harm issue said, "Just don't do it anymore." Aw gee, why didn't anyone else think of that?) Another therapist he had an appointment with was found to have lost his license "back east," for unspecified reasons - he decided not to go to that one. The community mental health office isn't quite sure what to do with him. He's an oddity, as one evaluator there told him. He doesn't use drugs, he doesn't drink, he's highly intelligent, and . . . he has all his teeth. She's more used to dealing with what is typically known as "dregs of society."
So they put him in day camp. Three days a week. To learn basic social skills apparently. Sigh. He said it felt like kindergarten. He missed quite a few of the days for various reasons. I don't blame him. They envision for him some sort of perhaps low-level job where he can be a drone.
He wants to go back to school and study statistics some more. He wants to be an actuary. He wants to do more writing. He's checking into taking classes. He's signed up for an online writing class with the local college. He's selling things on ebay. He's DOING THINGS.
He feels isolated at times. He feels . . . alone. He has his parents, he has me, but it's so easy to lose touch with friends. He hasn't heard from his best friend in several weeks. I told him today to give him a call, that it's okay. I told him to talk to another old friend he sees around town, that it's okay. He forgets that. He thinks no one wants to hang around with him, that people avoid him. It's not true of course. People like him, they just get wrapped up in their own lives. We all do. It is true that some people don't know how to respond, and can't deal with it, but that's not his fault. I tell him that. He's a likable guy. He just needs more contact with more people.
He's cut a few times since he moved to California. The first time his mother dealt with it well - I'd told her it wasn't a big deal, he cleans up after himself, usually it helps him feel a bit better (personally, I think this method of self-medication is better than drinking or drugs, both very common for people like him), and not to panic about it. I talk or chat online with him daily, and with his mother. I reassure her, when she doesn't know what to do, or how he is. One day I chatted with her while I chatted with him at the same time, relaying information back and forth on what the situation was, how he was, and what he was feeling. He was in the same house she was, but didn't know how to communicate with her what he was feeling without upsetting her. I am the universal translator. Sometimes I can't tell how he is without hearing his voice, so I call him. I do phone counseling. I make him laugh. I tell him amusing stories about the Killing Machine. Sometimes, when I'm down because I doubt myself, he helps me. He talks to me sternly, he tells me how ridiculous I am, and he's right.
I'm very proud of him. Like all of us, he's a work in progress, and the important thing is that he is working on it. That's what matters; he hasn't given up, he doesn't let his illness consume him.
Stew is in California, and we've both had to relearn how to do things. I, for example, can now, on the days I'm not scheduled to meet with clients, stay in my office (aka, home) all day and work, and not see any other people. In the morning my domestic partner is here, and at night, and in between, I'm responsible for no one besides myself. And the dog. And various clients in various stages of panic, but there are entire days when even they are all quiet. They all think I'm working on their problems is why, and they know that to leave me alone means I can, perhaps, work faster. I try to bunch my client visits together, so I can spend big blocks of time on one project or another, and other big blocks of time going here and there. Yesterday, Friday, April 1st, I saw four clients, one of them a new one, and didn't get home until 9.
Anyway, this isn't about me.
This is about our friend Stew. He's doing pretty well. Considering. Considering, that is, that he's in an area where the options for receiving help are severely limited. One therapist doesn't believe in the borderline diagnosis. One doesn't treat people who self-harm. (But who then told Stew when to come back, and about the self-harm issue said, "Just don't do it anymore." Aw gee, why didn't anyone else think of that?) Another therapist he had an appointment with was found to have lost his license "back east," for unspecified reasons - he decided not to go to that one. The community mental health office isn't quite sure what to do with him. He's an oddity, as one evaluator there told him. He doesn't use drugs, he doesn't drink, he's highly intelligent, and . . . he has all his teeth. She's more used to dealing with what is typically known as "dregs of society."
So they put him in day camp. Three days a week. To learn basic social skills apparently. Sigh. He said it felt like kindergarten. He missed quite a few of the days for various reasons. I don't blame him. They envision for him some sort of perhaps low-level job where he can be a drone.
He wants to go back to school and study statistics some more. He wants to be an actuary. He wants to do more writing. He's checking into taking classes. He's signed up for an online writing class with the local college. He's selling things on ebay. He's DOING THINGS.
He feels isolated at times. He feels . . . alone. He has his parents, he has me, but it's so easy to lose touch with friends. He hasn't heard from his best friend in several weeks. I told him today to give him a call, that it's okay. I told him to talk to another old friend he sees around town, that it's okay. He forgets that. He thinks no one wants to hang around with him, that people avoid him. It's not true of course. People like him, they just get wrapped up in their own lives. We all do. It is true that some people don't know how to respond, and can't deal with it, but that's not his fault. I tell him that. He's a likable guy. He just needs more contact with more people.
He's cut a few times since he moved to California. The first time his mother dealt with it well - I'd told her it wasn't a big deal, he cleans up after himself, usually it helps him feel a bit better (personally, I think this method of self-medication is better than drinking or drugs, both very common for people like him), and not to panic about it. I talk or chat online with him daily, and with his mother. I reassure her, when she doesn't know what to do, or how he is. One day I chatted with her while I chatted with him at the same time, relaying information back and forth on what the situation was, how he was, and what he was feeling. He was in the same house she was, but didn't know how to communicate with her what he was feeling without upsetting her. I am the universal translator. Sometimes I can't tell how he is without hearing his voice, so I call him. I do phone counseling. I make him laugh. I tell him amusing stories about the Killing Machine. Sometimes, when I'm down because I doubt myself, he helps me. He talks to me sternly, he tells me how ridiculous I am, and he's right.
I'm very proud of him. Like all of us, he's a work in progress, and the important thing is that he is working on it. That's what matters; he hasn't given up, he doesn't let his illness consume him.
