What Doesn’t Kill You Will Only Make You Stronger

At the ripe young age of forty-two, I began my career as a social worker. Life is about love and happiness, disappointments and disillusionments, ups and downs, trials and errors, sickness and death. No one is perfect, but we all seem to seek perfection in the relationships we create, nurture, endure, and terminate. They are not always easy because relationships are about interacting with others—be it family, friends, coworkers, or clients. Sometimes we can feel as though we don’t have much to give and surprise ourselves when we, in fact, have so much to offer others. And then there are times when we feel we have reached a point in our lives when we have become tired of giving and not receiving anything in return.

Taking on a career as a social worker was a turning point in my life. I felt that I had given so much physically but was unsatisfied emotionally. People talk about giving back to their communities, and although I felt I never had anything to offer, I believed that was the path I needed to take. I wanted to give back: to offer guidance, emotional support, and strength to those who were on the road I, myself, had traveled and survived. My first social work job was as a domestic violence counselor. I met new people, and believe I helped many women in abusive relationships.

I remember thinking that I had nothing to offer these women. After interviewing with the program director and talking about domestic violence, it occurred to me that, duh, I myself had been in a very nasty and abusive relationship, not to mention all the other emotional and verbal abuse I had suffered. Well, it was definitely interesting work, but also very draining.

Not only were the clients interesting, but the staff was crazy as all hell. The director was a control freak—how ironic!!! On the one hand, she needed to be in control of everything, and on the other hand, she was always seeking approval from her staff and peers while crying crocodile tears. It was weird.

The employees consisted of a social worker, a program manager, domestic violence advocates, an office manager, and a janitor. Everyone in that office had issues—as do most people. But we worked as a very dysfunctional family. I was the only social worker in the program, which was very isolating in and of itself because it was my first job as a social worker. Advocate number one was always spreading gossip and basically stabbing anyone and everyone in the back. Advocate number two was so loud and aggressive that she basically retraumatized the clients. Advocate number three did just enough to get by, and advocate number four was the one I took under my wing because she actually worked. The program manager spent a lot of time trying to resolve conflict among the advocates while creating beautiful PowerPoint presentations for her outside activities. The office manager was fired for embezzling petty cash, and then there was the janitor who came in and barely cleaned—or for that matter, barely showed up to work.

With respect to the clients, you can only help those who want to help themselves. Although that is a hard lesson for anyone to learn, it is one that I am quite familiar with. People stay in abusive relationships for various reasons and finally come to us in moments of crisis. Laughter was my way of building a therapeutic relationship with the clients. I believe that laughter is the best medicine, so I would always empathize with them and try to help them relax by smiling and making small jokes from time to time. I remember one client whom I was seeing on a regular basis. One day she stated she couldn’t believe that she was still in the same relationship. Well, I couldn’t resist. I said, “Really? I can’t believe you’re still there either. That must be some good dick!”

She laughed until tears came out of her eyes. Sometimes you have to state the obvious—and I had known her well enough to know that sex was a big reason why she stayed. Anyway, by that time we had created a safety plan for her and her family, and she was attending the support group on a regular basis.

I remember seeing one family in their home. It was a mother, her children, and her father. The mother had just had a baby after being raped by her children’s father. It was pretty hard trying to gain the confidence of the children because they were teenagers and doing what they wanted to do. I decided to talk to them the way I talk to my children, and we instantly connected. They began opening up to me, and the youngest always wanted to read and draw pictures for me. Eventually I had to terminate the relationship with the family because the mother’s father started calling me his wife. I think not!

I continued my work as a domestic violence counselor, lecturer, and trainer for two years. I provided individual and family counseling, ongoing trainings, and lectures on domestic violence to various medical facilities, schools, foster care organizations, and substance abuse agencies, and I facilitated various support groups and workshops. With the help of my coworkers, we created a healthy relationship curriculum to use in domestic violence shelters and public schools. Although it was a lot of work, it was well worth it. I learned a lot and enjoyed being able to give back to those in need.

However, the grant for my position eventually ran out. At the time I was unfamiliar with grants, and had no idea that once the money ran out, so would my employment. There I was working when—boom, the chair was pulled out from underneath me, and I had to begin looking for a new job. Fortunately for me, I had stayed in touch with friends I had made while attending grad school. Danny is one of those friends. We met from time to time near NYU to have dinner or meet up with other school friends for drinks. Anyway, when a position opened up at the school where he worked, he asked me to interview for the position. I wasn’t too keen on working in a school, nor on going to another state for a job. But I finally went for the interview in May, was offered the job, and began working at the school in September.

Although working with teens in a special education program has its challenges, once you’ve gained their trust, it’s a blast. The staff, on the other hand, is a whole other story. I honestly believe they are far worse than the students—and that’s another book! The work is rewarding but as anyone who is a social worker knows, the pay is not. And most people who go into this field are not doing it for the pay! Fortunately, I was able to land a part-time job on the weekends.

The school year is ten months long, but it seems like forever when you know you have two months off for the summer. So, school would start again in ten weeks. Whatever would I do for the summer? I didn’t know and didn’t care—all that mattered was that it was over with for now. And to think I never thought I would find myself working as a school social worker in a special education program, or as a social worker at all for that matter. It’s funny how things have a way of working themselves out . . .

The week after my job let out for the summer, I went to take my LCSW exam for the third time. I needed a seventy-five to pass the exam, and both times previously I had received a seventy-three. Once again, my heart was pounding fast, I kept using the bathroom, and I was just a wreck. But I had been studying for three months using an Internet site by a Dr. Hutchinson. It cost me over two hundred dollars, but hell—it was well worth it. Boy, was I ever excited when I finished my exam and the screen said, “Congratulations. You passed your exam.”