I should be working on notes right now.
Scribbling my “Data,” “Assessments,” and “Plans” for the flock of wonderful teenage ne’er-do-wells that I currently have on my case load.
They are all wonderful, delicate, wounded, funny, brilliant, angry, hurtful, shameful, vicious and earnest. Currently there are seven, which is low for me (Ten is average), and I love every one in their own ways. I think that’s vital to providing empowering therapy. It has little to do with my judgment of them. I’m not acting to change them. I’m acting to help them hone those loveable qualities to razor’s edges, to weaponize their wonderful assets in their war against the horrors of their pasts, environments and mistakes. A war which they had chosen only to survive through scar tissue, ugliness and fear. Many have hidden their hearts, their childhood, their hope so deep within themselves that the worst fight is excavation.
Some I have to send away. F.T.A., it’s called. Pronounced, “Eff-Tee-Ay” in the world of teenage rehabilitation. It stands for "Failure to Adjust" and involves leaving in handcuffs, usually after beating, stabbing or emotionally assassinating someone.
Some win. Some stop surviving and begin thriving. Some regain hope, fulfilling family lives, futures and most of all self respect.
The above stands in stark contrast to the heart of this blog message. It was to be about the reason why I am dallying in MS Word, rather than completing notation. However, I couldn’t fully express my reasoning without laying the contextual foundation.
I’ve always wanted to be on the front lines of something important. I’ve always wanted to be fighting for something. I’ve always wanted the days I have to spend away from my loved ones (including my Xbox 360 and guitar) to matter. I wanted it gritty. Ugly. Real.
…and it is.
Yet, this is the fickle barb of the human condition; mine most of all—There is a cost, and I’m feeling it. I’m pulled back to my first love; the written word. I’ve been published in newspapers, magazines, and song. I wrote a NaNoWriMo novel and a handful of short stories. I’ve penned gigabytes of research papers, case studies and theses.
But, I’ve been feeling like I’m out of touch with that world. That I’ve sacrificed it, for the greater good, including the last four years I spent in the educational boot camp which prepared me for these frontlines I love. I’m feeling less than as a writer, even as I grow as a psychotherapist. And at times I hate myself for it. It’s vain and ultimately self-flagellatory.
It brings me back to the essential truth that my memory has tagged as said by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr., but so many misreport what he had said that I don’t know. “Writer’s write,” he may have said. No matter if he did or didn’t, I am. You will see in up coming posts, more evidence of this. I have the skills—not said in pride, only self-assessment—and I’m working to put them into play again. My last paid project was '06 or '07. That's been too long.
I’m kicking the rust off this old machine and beating it with a wrench where crucial.
I’ll keep you posted.
K
