I Don't Want to be Here I Want to go Home

This is how the sketch idea started, just a simple
representation of the Family Room. 

The first part went exactly as I'd imagined. My sister and I walk into a small one-story building at the direction of a clipboard-and-nametag-lanyard staff member. My sister signs us both in and makes us name tags. When a staff person asks us who(m) we are there in support of, we respond in unison with the name of our "Loved One" (as they refer to the client-resident-patient).

I peek into the water pitcher on the table to see if there's any ice in it - nope. I ask if I can return to the car to get my drink; "What kind of drink?" I suppose my face appeared honest enough because when I stammered, "Just a big-gulp cup with ice!" he nodded permission.

My sister of course needed to pee. Oh my God there's only one bathroom? We have to use the same bathroom as our Loved One(s)?

Inspirational art, mismatched metal folding chairs, dry-erase board, coffee I'm sure will suck so I'm not going near it (my sister, less schooled than I in these matters, tries it and later rates it as "terrible"). A bag of those Hostess mini-donuts - the greasy chocolate kind, which I technically "love," but my husband finds so gross I feel sort of silly whenever I eat them.

We are here, at Short-term Residential Substance Abuse Treatment Facility X to show support for our Loved One, by participating in "Multi-family Group Counseling."

This is the sketch evolving
and becoming 3-D. 

My sister and I take our seats near the right-hand top of the horseshoe of chairs. I am distinctly uncomfortable, which I initially attribute to, hey I am the clinical social worker/therapist. I'm supposed to be facilitating, or co-facilitating, or at least be supervising the facilitator. I'm not supposed to be participating. Specifically, at my last job I did lead our multi-family group. Dammit. 

Later I come to realize, it's partly that, but it's mostly simply, I do not want to be here. I do not want to sit in a room with a bunch of drug addicts and possibly otherwise-crazy people and talk about our family. I want to leave I want to leave I want to leave. And oh God I want a cigarette. And a beer. 

(There is not a single ounce of snobbery in this, I promise. It's really not a "look what has befallen our fine family," because that's really funny if you know our family. It's not that I think my family should be immune, that I shouldn't have to do this because I'm a clinician. It's more ... I can't believe I'm here. An instructive experience for me the clinician, recognizing this is likely how every single group client of mine has ever felt)

I'd debated whether to share with the staff my educational/work background, and had decided against it, unless I was asked directly. Note to self: next time, share this with sister. As we were at the top of the horseshoe, we were asked to introduce ourselves first, and she was first in line. She gave her first name and immediately said, "My sister's a social worker and I'm an interior designer, so she knows a lot more about this than me."

It was much easier to marvel again and again how brand-new this is for my sister, than to think about why we're here.

So I give my name and hasten to add, I am a social worker but I am totally open to new ideas and suggestions, because nothing I've ever come up with has ever been the slightest bit helpful. This gets a laugh from most of the other folks.

This is the room filling up - some folks
seem to be a little more hostile and
defensive than others. 

Each of the others takes his/her turn, giving first names only and stating the main concern with their Loved One. The first hour of the meeting is just us, the families, and then the Loved Ones will be brought in for the second hour. 

It was about halfway around the semi-circle of names that I began thinking I might throw up. I really can't think of a better word than "uncomfortable," again not because I'm a social worker, but simply with the entire situation. I don't want to be here I want to go home.

The facilitator (I was not too sure about him at first, but later I liked him pretty well) provided us with some general substance abuse and recovery education, and worked on addressing a few individual concerns. One of the Extra People in the room introduced himself as someone who completed the program about 5 years ago and returns several times per week to help out with groups and other tasks. He talked about planting some purple iris bulbs out front of the facility, and how much more rewarding that was to him now, than drug or alcohol use had ever been. 

Later when my sister and I were describing our Loved One, this guy immediately realized who we were talking about, as the guy who had come up and engaged him in conversation about the iris, and shared that our mom initially had red, white and purple iris but eventually the purple took over everything. Our Loved One seems to have made a favorable, intelligent impression on this guy; when we talked about our hope that he can go somewhere for continued treatment when his time here is up he said, "I think he wants it." The facilitator later commented, "Yeah, he's obviously a really intelligent guy." I'm pretty sure they didn't say anything specific about interactions with any other Loved Ones, so I guess he did make an impression. 

After the group rules were more clearly explained.
Yes, this is the silliest thing I have ever done.
But this is what we had, so I just went with it. 

Our Loved Ones then joined us; this was the first I'd seen of ours since the, ah, precipitating event (yes, I am a therapist) that led to our Loved One being committed to a psychiatric unit and then transitioning to this place. I haven't seen him since Christmas, and he looks terrible. A lot older than he is, lots of gray in his beard I've never seen. Very skinny. He had some good clothes, which I later learned were donated by my new brother-in-law. 

There was not a whole lot of whole-group discussion, whereas there had been among us when it was just us family members. The facilitator set us to work on a fill-in-the-blank worksheet; we were supposed to work on it as a family and I suppose it's a chance for the Loved Ones to demonstrate what they've learned in their time here. My sister and I used this time to talk with our Loved One about various options for when he has to leave, which is this coming Monday. I like the worksheet okay, though we struggled with some of the specific terms to put in the blanks. The sheet talks about re-building trust and asks how we can prepare ourselves to "not relapse ourselves" and fall in to old patterns of thinking, should our Loved One relapse. That term's a little awkward but I really liked it. It was funny to realize how anxious I was about completing the sheet correctly (initially spell-check corrected that to "corruptly") - another tidbit to file away for future my-client use. 

The other Extra Person in the room was completely silent during the first group, and then didn't speak at all for about 95% of the second group, but he made the last 5% count. He, also, is a graduate of the program who returns to help out. He talked about the importance of having a support group of other men, and that an AA or NA meeting is a good way to build that support with other recovering men, such that he doesn't have to call his sponsor for everything. He says they all check in with one another about stressors and can catch one another before a "slide" starts or gets worse. I think he used an effective illustration to explain, the relapse doesn't start when you pick up the beer. The relapse started a few days ago or a few weeks ago, when you experienced your triggers and didn't take action. 

I started feeling calmer about halfway through the first group, and I'm pretty sure my sister, our Loved One, and I laughed more than any of the other families; we are generally funny and it's a coping mechanism during difficult times.

The second group was finally over and our Loved One walked us out to my sister's car - but he can't get too close to the vehicle because we might try to pass him something. This is another moment of "is this actually happening?" for me. I have visited clients in prison, when they were on a "no contact" level and we had to do the "talk on the phone while looking at each other through glass" deal, rather than sitting at a table like, you know, people. 

The next morning I came back to meet with my Loved One's main counselor and she, he, and I talked more about his plans for after discharge. The counselor had sounded really nice over the phone, and she was good in person too, my Loved One appears to really like her and listen to her to some degree. I only hope he realizes she's a lesbian and doesn't hit on her and be horribly embarrassed. The walls of the lobby in the administration building are covered with those "Successory" posters, championing CHANGE, PERSEVERANCE and TEAMWORK, etc. The counselor's office is tiny, a closet really, and my Loved One and I are face to face. I can see, much more clearly than I could last night, much more clearly than I want to, the horrid fresh scar on his left arm, kind of hooking around from the inside mid-forearm to his inner elbow, that started the journey that thus far has ended us up here, with who knows what still to come.

I loathe Successories. Being the social worker, they have abounded in every work setting I've been in, to the point that I simply laugh at them. 

Things are looking up, relatively speaking; I have continued to receive updates from my sister. We have offered financial assistance for treatment-related expenses (only), and we are hoping for the best.

No grand ending here; I'm publishing this on Monday, the day our Loved One is being discharged. Plans have changed approximately 45 times since this last session. We are hoping for the best.