index | archives | notes Wednesday, Aug. 12, 2015 8:00 p.m. << [ Getaway Scars ] >> It caught up to me in my car, the way it always does, with me alone, thinking, alone, the thoughts stacking themselves into towers of misery. One of my kiddos was institutionalized again today. I always start to type "client" before I type "kiddo" and correct myself, because even though client is the clinical term, the term is just that--clinical. Clinical isn't how I feel about them. This is my baby in a hospital. This is my baby, isolated, restrained, because she hurts and no one can reach her. She is fifteen, and feels very much the way I felt at fifteen, and look at all the good my suffering did me: I still can't fucking reach her. This is why they tell us not to get attached. Not to take it personally. My supervisor told me that if I keep taking it personally, this field will eat me alive. It will. It is. Every tragic thing that happens to these kids becomes something I could have prevented if I'd tried harder, worked longer, asked the right questions, written the right programs, trained the therapists better, fucking whatever. Boyfriend sat on the steps out front waiting for me when I got home. "What's the matter?" he said, "Aren't you happy to see me?" "Yes," I said, and then I started to sob. << | x | >> whatiscopyright.org