I have 2 thoughts or ideas, I guess.
First that the rescue “fantasy” is hardwired. It’s a survival instinct that is essential to making it through extreme abuse, both physically and emotionally. I mean the fantasy is essential.
I remember giving up hope as a child. It’s dangerous and in some ways subjected me to a life of victim hood. It’s not unrealistic for a child to yearn for protection, love, care, safety, even from the very people harming them. They must yearn. There’s no choice. Naturally those unmet instincts carry on usually unexamined.
Secondly, I was a social worker for child protection in south central Los Angeles during the crack epidemic. I began the job weeks after the Rodney King riots. There’s no way to convey the helplessness and devastation I experienced in that community and in the souls of everyone I dealt with at that time.
Seeing me, white, slight, 25 yrs old with red hair, my clients would urge me to vacate the vicinity long before sundown. I was always surprised by the fear in their eyes that far surpassed my knowledge.
Turns out I simply could not manage my caseload. I had 67 children and I was supposed to visit all of them, as well as every caretaker and parent every month. Some workers had manageable situations. I had a 7 year old chase me and his grandmother around the house with a knife, death threats on my voicemail, kids that were so malnourished they looked 18 months old at 3.
I had to go to the projects alone, before cell phones, while 10 men would follow right behind me from the parking lot to the front door of the family and back. Small talk was my friend.
There were as many abusers in foster parents as relatives, meanwhile the government was paying the crack suppliers to keep product readily available.
The trickle down effect goes from the government, the institutions, the elders, the parents, the children, to the animals. In my years of driving the streets I couldn’t number the amount of times I tried to get a starving beaten animal to come to me. Only one ever did.
I must admit I didn’t last long. When I needed tequila to sleep every single night, I was forced to surrender and move to a private agency.
Then as now, I could walk into a room and viscerally know the dynamics of power and harm. The energy is palpable and undeniable. We all have this instinct.
I don’t think the reality that need is greater than generosity will ever change. So we either choose to do what we can, setting into motion unpredictable consequences or we stuff it down. Both have their strengths and drawbacks. But there is no neutral action.
It’s enough to keep you up at night needing a stiff shot.
After I left, one of the 3.5 year old girls on my caseload was murdered. I was asked to testify.
After I left, exiting a popular shopping mall a woman called out to me. A young mother of maybe 20 wanted to thank me. She said she had lost her kids, but was grateful that I always treated her with respect.
I could never have predicted these outcomes. Thank goodness that was never my job.
First that the rescue “fantasy” is hardwired. It’s a survival instinct that is essential to making it through extreme abuse, both physically and emotionally. I mean the fantasy is essential.
I remember giving up hope as a child. It’s dangerous and in some ways subjected me to a life of victim hood. It’s not unrealistic for a child to yearn for protection, love, care, safety, even from the very people harming them. They must yearn. There’s no choice. Naturally those unmet instincts carry on usually unexamined.
Secondly, I was a social worker for child protection in south central Los Angeles during the crack epidemic. I began the job weeks after the Rodney King riots. There’s no way to convey the helplessness and devastation I experienced in that community and in the souls of everyone I dealt with at that time.
Seeing me, white, slight, 25 yrs old with red hair, my clients would urge me to vacate the vicinity long before sundown. I was always surprised by the fear in their eyes that far surpassed my knowledge.
Turns out I simply could not manage my caseload. I had 67 children and I was supposed to visit all of them, as well as every caretaker and parent every month. Some workers had manageable situations. I had a 7 year old chase me and his grandmother around the house with a knife, death threats on my voicemail, kids that were so malnourished they looked 18 months old at 3.
I had to go to the projects alone, before cell phones, while 10 men would follow right behind me from the parking lot to the front door of the family and back. Small talk was my friend.
There were as many abusers in foster parents as relatives, meanwhile the government was paying the crack suppliers to keep product readily available.
The trickle down effect goes from the government, the institutions, the elders, the parents, the children, to the animals. In my years of driving the streets I couldn’t number the amount of times I tried to get a starving beaten animal to come to me. Only one ever did.
I must admit I didn’t last long. When I needed tequila to sleep every single night, I was forced to surrender and move to a private agency.
Then as now, I could walk into a room and viscerally know the dynamics of power and harm. The energy is palpable and undeniable. We all have this instinct.
I don’t think the reality that need is greater than generosity will ever change. So we either choose to do what we can, setting into motion unpredictable consequences or we stuff it down. Both have their strengths and drawbacks. But there is no neutral action.
It’s enough to keep you up at night needing a stiff shot.
After I left, one of the 3.5 year old girls on my caseload was murdered. I was asked to testify.
After I left, exiting a popular shopping mall a woman called out to me. A young mother of maybe 20 wanted to thank me. She said she had lost her kids, but was grateful that I always treated her with respect.
I could never have predicted these outcomes. Thank goodness that was never my job.
