New year, new job, new beginnings, new direction

Finally I’ve gotten my shit together to write a proper post. And even having said that, I might cut myself off halfway through because I actually don’t feel like writing right now.

So I had my first day on my brand new job. For the sake of privacy, there isn’t a lot I can reveal about what organisation or target population I’m working with. Let’s just say, it’s a ethnic community organisation, of which I belong. It has been my dream to work with my own community since God knows how long. Probably since I worked in the UK and realised how awesome it would be. When applying for placement, I specified I wanted to be placed either in mental health, or my particular community. Or in a location where my language skills can be used, and improved upon. I had also attempted to score placement in my home country, which unfortunately wasn’t successful for many a reason.

I finally landed it. After a long and tumultuous, often depressing, ride through unemployment, my final chance lay within a recruitment company. I didn’t much like the idea of temp work, but it seemed the only opportunity I had left. Literally a day or two after signing up, my consultant called me up with a job offer, saying that my language skills and working with refugees and immigrant populations would make me perfect for the role. Of course, within moments of having the role described to me, I jumped at it. Despite the role being aged care case manager, which I have no experience in (nor previously had any interest!), I said that I’m in need of a challenge, I need something new and different.

The interview fell on the same day as an interview I had for a part-time position as a respite worker in mental health. I had literally about 20 minutes to drive from one interview to the next, and by some miracle I managed to make it just in time (only to wait another 10 minutes because of course us social workers always have ‘just one more quick phone call’ to make). Both interviews went quite well. I had psyched myself up, prepared myself by reading up on both target populations and care provision on the net, I relaxed into the interview, made jokes, said all the relevant things, but because of my heightened pessimism from being unemployed 4 months, I still thought I had no chance.

The next day, respite called me back saying I missed it by a hair, only due to having never worked in respite. Apparently, it’s competitive. No, actually, I think it’s more apparent that everyone is looking for a fucking job right now.

I waited another 2 weeks til I had the good news from my current employer. An excruciating 2 weeks. Filled with more job searching, and massive procrastination, hoping that I maybe by some fluke I wouldn’t have to put any applications in…

—Fast Forward— (I was tempted to blog over Christmas and New Year because a LOT of shit had gone down in my personal life that I desperately wanted to get off my chest – but it just never seemed appropriate, either time-wise or otherwise).

I started today. My previous job was rife with problems. Management kicking up a shitstorm, changing very nearly everything for the sake of getting more money (complex cases were seen to be quite lucrative – although I’m sure that the federal funding body will soon realise that they’re casually rorting the system; client-centred funding $50 000 for 6 months work on one family being divided up so that a percentage flows back into the company for the purpose of obtaining a fleet of company cars), while not giving two hoots about the actual ‘case’ involved. High expectations neutralised by dismissive feedback on service provision. Poor, or non-existant supervision. No HR (until recently, but I’d long since left by then). Contradiction and hypocrisy on more levels than bare admitting. Anyway, the nightmare is long behind me.

It is so darn strange stepping into a role in a community organisation that is so vastly different in a million and one different ways. The only similarities I can currently see, other than the vague fact that both were community organisations serving migrants to Australia, is that both are in massive change mode. The way the other one was heading, is where this one is just coming over the crest of. Politics, there is no doubt about it, are rife in both.

The first minute was interesting. The first minute! Upon stepping through the door! 4 ladies were standing around reception chatting in the mother tongue, and I walked in, inter0rupting the conversation. There was a casual remark about me being ‘one of the new ones’, and I introduced myself to the best of my ability. It was a strange out of body experience. I was nervous, because I was stuffing up grammatically with every verb and pronoun and tense, but at the same time strangely at peace with the situation. I guess maybe maturity has kicked in, maybe I suddenly realised that I don’t have to prove myself to anyone? Maybe.

Although my name is a bit obscure, slightly old-fashioned in English, it is extremely common in my language. So much so that there are four others with the same name working alongside me in the organisation. Comforting, for me. The others around reception seemed almost…annoyed! One of them asked me a question that I struggled to understand. Perhaps it was a weird bastardisation of two languages, perhaps I was a little ignorant, perhaps I just didn’t hear her properly, but I finally figured out that she was asking me what my surname initial was. To set me apart. And I think at that stage some of the others raised their eyebrows, and noses, at me, for not understanding or interpreting her question properly. Despite being later introduced to some, despite walking past them in the hallway, despite deliberately smiling at them when they looked in my direction as they passed my office, there were a handful that were completely stand-offish. The three that most talked to me as the one who shared my office (a 2-week temp, she’s usually a personal care worker), the IT guy, and the Team Leader.

I was given the run-down by the Team Leader almost immediately about the situation politics-wise. She was one of only two Australian-born workers. She had also been working as a social worker for around 17 years. She described the situaton when she first arrived as more than slightly disorganised. It seemed that workers (who were either under-qualified or not qualified at all as social or welfare workers) were overloaded, were ‘making do’, and were picking up anything and everything, because that’s just the way it’s always been. In walks Anglo worker. Makes changes. Puts forward policies. Plans. Strategies. New workers, new rosters, new ways of care provision. Structure. Accountability. This, understandably, rubs them up the wrong way. An outsider has waltzed in, thinking she knows best. Well, in this very case, I agree with her. And she is being faced with good old-fashioned stubborness, distrust and caution. I would say it’s an incredibly predictable reaction they’ve had, knowing my people. I have a feeling though, that over time, and hopefully with me on board, things will change, and it’ll be more streamlined, less stressful.

Now one more thing before I go. Well, two more things. First of all, writing ‘knowing my people’ made me feel a little strange just now. Do I know my people? I mean, what do I really know? WHO do I really know? My parents, my aunts and uncles, my grandfather? A selection of cousins, a pen-pal, some tv characters, a few movies from the 70s and 80s? I hardly think that represents a community, and I hardly think it is a fair representation in any sense. And this understanding I have, can that really be applicable to generation of elders, with whom I have little experience? I’m scared that my limited understanding of issues, of generational conflicts in my own community, of the elderly in general will not make me successful in this role.

Which brings me to my final point, my final worry. I have had a very loose, very distant relationship with death. I have unresolved feelings, as well as unresolved desires surrounding death. The grandmother I was the most close to passed away a year after I had seen her last. Following a heartrending story of the pain of seeing her sick I had read out in Grade 11 English, I had made a promise to myself, and to the class, that I would write to her. I would try to write to her more often. It wasn’t long after that that she died, on 16th November 1998. The fact I can remember that, well. The date still haunts me. I never did end up writing to her. I don’t even write to grandad, her husband. I can think of many excuses. It’s too hard, I struggle with the language. In fact, they are probably the most easy to justify, if not the most ludicrous and lazy excuses. But perhaps I’m also scared. Scared of getting too close, then having to deal with loss again.

Despite having very few memories of my grandmother, largely because of coming to live in Australia, she is really everpresent. I just heard her voice in my head, and it was crystal clear as if she was right here in the room. And, unsuprisingly, I am now sobbing.

What scares me about this job is being so close to this feeling of loss. Being surrounded by it, as it is what I understand superficially as the very nature of aged care work. It was enormously difficult to deal with then, it continues to be to a lesser (but more vivid) extent with random pet deaths, but I fear that coming face to face with it professionally means I need make my peace with it, to try and remember without guilt, without fear and to understand it to some degree. And to respect the memory.

Job!

A very quick update to say, I got a job!
Will be giving more details soon.

Weird, weird dreams.

I think maybe the starnge dreams I had last night were possibly due to some anxiety about going up North for Christmas in a weeks’ time and dealing with parentals. That is the only thing I can pin it down to.

Shall I extrapolate? Please! Let me. These were 3 very vivid dreams all on the same night, each finishing with me waking up shaking my head and wondering whether all that really just happened.

The first dream has no clear beginning or end. All I recall from it is wearing two sets of contact lenses in my left eye. Then when I was required to remove one set, I realised there was another in that eye. I panicked, not sure how I could have missed that. It is very odd. I pulled the last lot out and looked in the mirror. Only to have a ghoulish veiny eyeball stare back. No pupil. No colour bits (the exact name escapes me). Just a veiny, colourless eyeball. Fucked. I went into shock, because although there was no pain, I think my eyes are alright, y’know? I didn’t know how I could live with this change. I’d have to wear coloured contacts ALL THE TIME!!!

So, woke up out of that one, went to the toilet, then collapsed back into sleep to have yet another remarkably strange dream.

This one involved my parents. We were going Christmas shopping together, and I met them in this weird, poorly lit, noir-esque carpark, where they sat in their ute an had literally a mountain of grocery shopping in the tray. There was fruit scattered willy nilly, and a number of high price items that were just lying there open on display. This is highly uncharacteristic of my paranoid parents to just leave things in the ute free for the taking while they ran other errands. I pressed them on it: wtf? They said, don’t worry about it, just get in and we’ll drive to Northland (Northland is a clone mall, with sisters in 2 other directions of Melbourne, filled with your local loveable inbreds and hideous, greasy food courts). I get in the car, and am driving them. We drive to this absolutely massive mall, about 100 times the size of the afore-mentioned Northland. This one was more akin to Chadstone (which has recently been bestowed the title of ‘largest eyesore in the southern hemisphere… I mean…. shopping mall’. What a claim to fame). Approaching this mall, there were about 6 different directions one could take to different carparks, and we choose the one that’s furthest away. To actually get a park. This proved successful. Once parked and exited, I once again pointed out to parents that leaving all their shit lying open in plain view/reach was ridiculous, which they once again met with quizzical looks, raised eyebrows and shrugged shoulders. Whatev, your loss. We enter the mall. Chaos ensues. There are literally heaving masses of people. Mum is lost instantaneously. I’m ripping my hair out with anxiety. Dad? Dad is flirting with a coffee barrista. As you do. He’s purchasing a goddamn coffee, while Xmas WW3 is occurring around him. The most notable of this sequence of events, other than the thing that awoke me, was him asking for sour cream in his coffee. SOUR. CREAM. Yeah, I know. In fact, even the barrista thought it was weird.
“Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes, certain.”
Then, he grabs the coffee, looks over at me. I’m glaring so much, my face is red hot from fury. I told him “I hate you so much right now”. A la Missy Elliot. Hahahhaa. Except I really meant it. His response?
“I hate you too.”

Wow. Woke up again. Glass of water, toilet, fed the cat. Back to bed. It was about 5am at this stage.

Last dream, the doozy.
I had hired a house out on the Gold Coast for a 10 year Schoolies Week reunion (Think Spring Break, but for 18yo straight after High School. That’s our legal drinking age). Except, as I’d later found out, I hadn’t really hired the house, my parents had. This dream featured a lot of people from high school, some people from actual Schoolies whom I’d met, my ex partner, and my ex boss (who’s also a good friend of mine now). My ex boss A was bored, as she’s a bit older than me and had nothing in common with everyone at the house. The house was slowly being gatecrashed by a lot of randoms, and it was starting to get nostalgically messy. A left, cruising to other parties. I told her to call me if she was coming home. My ex was there. He had no shirt on, and for some reason I kept rubbing his shoulders. I don’t remember him having hairy shoulders (this is possibly an amalgamation of my current partner, who does), but it was really grossing me out. But I kept doing it. Also, WTF,  he HATED being shirtless. He kept telling me how much he still loved me and how much he wanted us to get back together again, and I was answering him in the same non-confrontational way I did when I still had patience for him: “It wouldn’t work, S, we’re completely different people now, our chemistry is fucked.” Then he attempted to lure me using poetry. Lots of swirling, whirling pieces, about shooting stars and rainbows and storms and camping and a few lines out of a poem he wrote for me a long, long time ago. It was touching, but at the same time really cringeworthy.

Suddenly: my parents. They walk through this back gate of the house’s backyard. The look of horror on my mother’s face is palatable. Dad looks like he’s about to travel back in time, purchase real-life versions of the guns he has replicas of hanging in his study, and shoot holes through my body. And everyone else’s. It was then that it dawns on me that they were renting the place. Because of course, that’s the sort of thing you’re likely to forget when you’ve got a million and one people traipsing through a rented house. Mum grabs me by the arm and yanks me into one of the bedrooms, the floor of which is partially ripped up, tarry footprints leading in and out of the room. She sits me down and quietly gives me the what-for. Apparently, there was a lot of money and gifts and things hidden in that very room!! And people had access to it!! They could’ve stolen it!! I asked mum how much money they forked out for renting the house for the week, saying I could recoup the costs and bond from every person in the house (not realistically viable, but I held out hope in the dream). Mum said, all the money we have. $6000. As I’m about to get up and start asking people for cash, something vibrates under the covers of the bed. It’s a phone. I pick it up, not recognising the caller ID. It’s A, and she’s fucked off her head on pills. She tells me she’s doing great, but the drugs were starting to get a little too much, and she said she was gonna come back. I told her, um, maybe not the best of ideas, seeing as my parents are here and ready to rip out spleens.. And just prior to waking up? I’m going through the house, asking each and every person to give me cash. I can’t be sure of this detail, but I actually think they were handing over their dough!!

Yeah. Weird.

What’s weirder, for me in particular, is that I’ve managed to remember in quite a bit of detail, each dream. A hard task by anyone’s stretch.

Anyway. After some xmas shopping done today and this blog post, I might stroll up the road for a happy hour drink.

Previous post garnered nil response.

I will not be discouraged!!!

HELP!

Asking for help – yes I’m doing it.

My psych pulled out strength cards at one of our previous sessions, and asked me to arrange them in piles of “definitely have” “sometimes have” “would like to have”.

Then out of the definitely have, to select the five that most relevant that apply to me. I chose myself:

* Independent
* Assertive
* Caring
* Supportive
* Open

Fairly inane strengths, but I was feeling particularly pessimistic at the time, and was lucky to put anything in any pile except “would like to have”.

We discussed how important independence is, but how sometimes it may be to our detriment. I wasn’t quite sure what the hell she meant when she said that – but one little thing she said about emotional independence in my relationship, rang bells.

I do not often ask for help. Sure, help with the dishes, can you get that heavy item off the top shelf. Anything else, I am a little too independent, stubborn almost, I’d like to do it all myself, for many many reasons. I was brought up tough. Dad made me do a lot of really tomboyish things that I complained about at the time, arduous, laborious tasks that shat me to no end. Both my parents liked to load up a million chores on me too, again, I whinged and whined but I did them. Now that I have my own place, the habits stick. Living with someone who has been brought up … slightly differently… means I become taskmaster and arse-kicker. Like my parents. Anyway, I’m going on a tangent.

Just as with all these physical tasks, my parents also (without a word being exchanged between any of us about this topic) prided themselves on emotional independence. Dad’s dad died when he was in his early 20s, I’ve never heard him speak of him once. Mum gets angry and emotional when someone isn’t doing anything right, or not behaving the right way, but in terms of asking for any sort of emotional help, well… we all deal with it ourselves. Don’t talk about it.

And yes, I suppose I fall into those lines. I like to share my burden whether it be online or through my journal, or a bitch or two to my friends, but should they ever share their opinions, it’s a personal attack. It’s criticism, it’s “You’re wrong, I’m right”. I know it’s not always logical, but I’m scared of being stung twice. I can’t listen to their advice, not one bit of it, for fear of being dependent, for fear of not being able to handle these things on my own. And of being a burden.

I’m learning to ask for help when I need it. And I need it now. Today’s previous post alluded to this stuckness that I’m feeling – I’m unemployed, I’m a (in my opinion) relatively inexperienced social worker. I’ve applied for so many jobs it’s making me sick looking at job descriptions and writing responses to key selection criteria. Literally, I was actually getting flu-ey last week!

So here’s what I’ve tried. Here’s what I’ve also been doing for the past 3 months.

* job searching daily
* applying only for jobs relevant to my interests and experience (I tried to apply for jobs outside of this and everything came back saying I didn’t display enough experience)
* researching companies I’ve been granted interviews for
* attempting to understand target populations by researching
* signed up to recruitment agencies – one for social work, one for admin/secretarial (the latter being initially as a stop-gap, now it’s become a back-up)
* going to library and reading up on techniques that I use (having used them but not really having time for self-reflection in my previous job, means I needed to theoretically ‘reskill’ myself)
* reading everything imaginable about how to answer job interview questions, best CV formats, presentation, etc.
* taking vitamins and gingko biloba for better brain activity
* reading social work blogs
* keeping my sense of humour (at least trying to!)
* attending professional development and seminars in interest areas (lack of money and the start of holidays means this is starting to not be as possible anymore)

So. Here I am ASKING FOR YOUR HELP.

What else should I be doing? What else can I be doing to increase my likelihood of being hired? What helped for you?

Any advice would be so gratefully appreciated.

PS > I do intend on doing volunteer work in the New Year should I not receive any positive news to any jobs I’ve currently applied for.

Still jobless. Losing hope.

I don’t have much to say, except I’ve now been unemployed for 3 months, sent countless resumes, attended a handful of interviews, and am at a loss as to why it’s just not working out for me currently.

I am today waiting on a phone call from a recruitment agency I signed up with, with whom I attended an interview working with aged people from Eastern Europe last week.
I’m hanging out for this one. Also, I feel if I don’t get it, I’ll feel like a failure.

2009 has been a largely crap year.

WordPress fail: YOU DIDN’T SAVE THE DRAFT!!

I’ve had a few drinks. I don’t want to start the whole conversation again about how I should give up alcohol, or that I think I’m such a better person when I’m drunk, because common sense dictates that not to be the case. The gist of the draft I had started earlier this evening was in prose-style. About how bad my writers block is. About how unmotivated I am. How even the inspiration I seek from the internets actually made my brain hurt. I couldn’t even think of the smallest most insignificant most teensy weensy detail to respond with. EVEN OUT OF MY OWN LIFE EXPERIENCE!!

For e.g.

What scene from a movie, book, or play would you most want to recreate in real life? Who would you play? Who would you cast in the other roles?

Answer: WTF? I don’t know! Demi Moore in GI Joe? Jack Black in School of Rock? Fuck!

Would you rent or buy the home of your dreams if a brutal murder had taken place there? What if you got to live there rent-free? Would you think twice if neighbors warned you that it was haunted?

Answer: Um..! Christ! A brutal murder? Well, my imagination is fucked. Paranormal Activity, the Amityville Horror and the experiences at my last house pretty much dictate it won’t happen. Oh and by the way? It wouldn’t be the house of my dreams if there was some fucked history like murders and shit there. (Specifically, if I knew about it)

Yeah. So maybe alcohol has enabled me to think a little more than I could earlier in the evening.

Back around 5.30pm, the one and only question that immediately got the hairs standing on the back of my neck, and the frustration and anger rising in my throat… was this one:

If you could say anything you want to the person who has hurt you most in life, what would it be?

Answer: I awake now with a new breath, a new day. There is light, there is sound, there is noise but noise that is happy and vocal and bright and sonic, not full of empty, of tightness, and grief and weight.

The change happened, but not without time, without a lot of space and time and distance, and many many cliche’s that make no sense to you.

You made an ultimatum, a promise, blackmail, heartbreak, that if I ever changed my mind, if I decided against you, that you would no longer physically exist. At 18, it’s such an easy thing to say, such a throwaway phrase when you’re in love, and yet the ultimate display of your love. That’s what it would appear. It felt so true, felt so right, felt like this is what people say, this is what they promise when they promise their love.

And in paranoia at Jenny’s party, speaking a word to Steve, saying I had doubts, I had doubts at 9 months in, the pregnancy of our relationship broke its water and gave birth to the fattest, most diseased, angry baby. That baby was the elephant in the room. That elephant demanded to go on safari.

You walked right on in on that one, I stumbled and cried, scared of what may have been revealed, and then out it tumbled. 9 months in, those words were first uttered. What followed was a full pint of Carlton Draught dropped from a height, onto the verandah of The Ship Inn. You ran. I followed, I grovelled, I took back words and turned back time, however just like Cher, I would never be forgiven. Or believed.

The words I love you were spoken and dismissed.

The cars drove by, you were walking blindly into them.

The manipulation.

You were everywhere, you were nowhere, you spoke only love and I saw only obsession.

And when we did break up eventually, it was understood that that was the end. We agreed. WE AGREED! There were conditions and there were rules. Those conditions were,
we were no longer to sleep together
we were no longer to spend every waking moment with one another
we were no longer to rely on each other so constantly and incessantly.

The cracks formed. Of course that wasn’t going to last. You couldn’t handle it. You had to control the situation. You needed to be with me. That hug lasted a lot longer than what I was comfortable with. You sewed your skin into mine while I was trying to delicately unpick with my teeth… So you wouldn’t notice… So you would notice…

The drugs were part of the issue. Pot was with us always. It explains why I can’t remember most of our relationship now, sadly, it’s the fun times I can’t remember, and only the bad times I can. Then I stupidly decided we needed to try something heavier. I guess I can partly be blamed for all the mess that ensued. So we took some Es and that was fine.

And after the breakup, there was the ice.

The psychotic, pathetic, tragic, monstrous, insidious, suicidal crystal meth.

That night, you stole the last moment. You lay there pretending to sleep; we lay there both on opposite sides of the room, trying to sleep, pretending to sleep, for hours on end, biting our teeth, sucking our tongues back, chewing our cheeks with the fan whirling around us and increasing the anxious tension in the room.

And then after that?

After that?

That?

That was the end of the end. You killed that person. You threw yourself out of the car and you killed me. And when your dad and brother knocked on my door hours afterwards, crying, bloodstained hands, bloodstained poetry… I knew I couldn’t go back.

You didn’t realise, and you never will. How much that entire experience destroyed me. That threat that you made, out of love, out of selfish love, you actually attempted to follow through. Once, twice, three times, four times… And 6 years on? Am I still the one to blame for it?

Selfish was the key word, selfish was the word that was bandied around like the new black, like the new skinny, like a primetime cooking show for words. I learnt dutifuly to say sorry in five different languages, to move aside and make all efforts. But nothing I could ever do would be enough. I was always the selfish one. Because I wanted to be me. I wanted to be independent. I wanted to write, and be private sometimes, to be alone and have a simple life. I wanted to be free, to be light, to live a life without the constant who what where when why and how of everything that ever happened without you there, just in case you may have missed somehting important, just in case you missed me looking at someone else, which you know was suggestively, you know i’m flirting with them, you know I’m trying to escape and run away and live another life with someone else other than you, you insecure little fuck. When I say I love you and I never wanted to be with anyone else other than you, and that I never even so much as hazarded a glance at anyone, ANYone, why couldn’t you just believe me? If you believed me? That long scar along your arm wouldn’t exist.

Thankfully though, I died old and dead, empty from you, eyes closed, blood drained, with a flicker of a smile in my eyes, that flicker which decided to exist in that new person I now call me. If there is one thing I can hate you for,  I fucking hate you for killing me. But I fucking love that I died.

 

 

Now that the well has opened, I could write so much more.

Ladies and gentlement, it goes to show that even time cannot heal all wounds, unless you unbandange them, and give them the actual TLC they deserve. I was so hurt. I was killed. I have no regrets. I have no wishes. I don’t want him back, although I did try. But if I never address these thoughts, they will still keep haunting me. And killing me, without ever getting to the me I want to be.

A long time between posts…

It’s been an age and a day since my last post. I can say that not much has happened, but that would be a bold-faced lie.

Previously, you found out that I quit working at the hospital and started full-time employment at the refugee resource centre. I finished placement, and was working there with no break in between. Within months I was burnt out. Following that, some organisational change within the agency meant that things fucked up massively. The focus changed, gone were the days of client-focused way of working. Gone were the days of community development. And the team leader P became the devil incarnate. She fucked up and ruined the entire office. Made it dead. Made it lifeless. Made it beige, depressing, institutional almost.

I quit. I had my last day on 30 August 2009. Since then, I’ve been in limbo. Went through a lot of personal turmoil. Didn’t know what direction I was gonna go to. Felt completely at  a loss. I still do, to a degree.

After applying for several jobs in administration as a stop gap, I snapped out of it and realised I should just throw myself back into it. I’m applying for mainly mental health positions. Most recently I had 2 very shocking, terribly catastrophic and underprepared interviews, one of which I was fairly confident of receiving one of the 4 positions available, and had a brain freeze and failed. Failed spectacularly. Didn’t bother to get feedback off that one, because honestly, where does one start.

The other job interview wasn’t as spectacular a failure, and the feedback I got from that actually was quite useful, and fair to say. Not bad for the first job interview in years, and also not bad for my very first interview in the field. I now know what I need to be saying. Even if it’s so hard to try and exemplify the “Why” in practice, and talk about theory in practice. A lot of it is just common sense, is it not? Fuck. It means everything needs to be gone over with a fine tooth-comb.

Ok, so one of the reasons I resurrected this blog is because the one over on blogspot was really going nowhere fast, and I find it impossible to discern who is reading, and form any sort of community. It’s a dead looking format too. Another reason is that I’d like this blog to be more centred around my creative endeavours, thoughts and musings. As it was first intended in the title. I veered off into talking about uni and social work. Which was going to be a reflective exercise and useful in my learning, but it just got too much of a burden to keep it up. So rather than locking myself in to the format of social work blog, I will meander between social commentary, poetry, and my own personal and professional development.

Welcome back Welcome back Welcome back.

Hospitals and holidays

Tuesday last week was a public holiday in Melbourne: Cup Day. As explained in the previous entry, yes, I had to work, and boy did I whinge about it.

Instead of the 8 hours I had been assigned to do, I only did 4- and came home to find my cat missing.

I called him and called him, with nothing. I had been gone a day, so thought it would almost be instant that he’d return, especially should there be food. But nothing. I heard a little scratching noises around the house and thought they were coming from the kitchen, but there was no cat there. So I did a house search and found him in E’s room. He walked sauntered out, and headed straight for his food bowl. Something about his head didn’t look right though – I knelt down – and there was a massive gash on the side of his head – a gaping wound that had already started to heal, but an abcess that was about an inch out of his head.

I went through the knee-jerk shock reaction of grabbing him and inspecting him, then crying, then trying to find a vet on a public holiday. I had just missed the one open closest to me: also the one my cat is registered with. It had to be the animal hospital.

I stuffed him in the cat box (I need to invest in a proper carrier), put him in the car, and went to North Melbourne, the city’s animal hospital… Not that far a drive, but anything more than 5 minutes in a car rings warning bells for blackboy.

Long story short, he was involved in a fight with another cat (not a possum, as I originally thought), and it required an overnight stay as well as surgery. Yipes. I started to cry. I left blackboy with them, and walked out of the hospital crying – I’m sure I gave the wrong impression to all the people in the waiting area…

The next day, I returned to pick him up. He had a tube coming out of his neck, to drain all the crap from the abcess. That was going to come out that Friday. Between Wednesday and Friday, there was never-ending scratching at the stitches, scratching at the tube, and overall the whole thing made me feel sick. When the tube came out, there was a cone put on my darling blackboy. And after that… well..

I started this entry 3 days ago, and since then, my cat has been driving me damn crazy. I am not getting any sleep from his conehead trials and tribulations, and I am ever more tempted to take the cone off. I did so about an hour ago, only to now find him with most of the scab loose – with the stitches attached to it. Although there might not be much point keeping the cone on for that cause, once the scab comes off, there’ll another fresh wound that needs to heal. How do you tell a cat to not scratch? How do you look him in the eye when he’s crying (yes, crying) whilst he has a cone on his head, is locked indoors, and it’s 30 odd degrees outside and tell him he needs to put up with it? Sigh.

So much more has happened in the world of social work since then too.. Along with a partner who has recently had surgery, and a weekend job whose regular is also in hospital, it feels as though I have the weight of the world leaning on me. For the sake of surviving – I keep my head up.

Two days: resignation of one job, an offer of another.

Well, it’s been quite some time between posts, and I feel like as a part of my social work placement, this self-reflective diary is kinda going down the tubes. Once returning from work each day, I genuinely have no energy to expend on writing about how I feel and what I’ve seen and done in the day and ‘critically reflect’ as such. I seriously commend those with social work blogs out there that are able to do this, and do it so damn well!

I guess practice makes perfect, and in this circumstance, I am up to my nose with placement, learning, and working on the weekends.

Which brings me to the subject of this blog post: what happened in the space of two days: Wednesday and Thursday.

Tuesday this week, I attended some training at DIAC (Department of Immigration and Citizenship), on “Understanding the Key Concepts of Ethnicity, Culture and Mental Health”. which was pretty blah – I have been in the mental health field for over a year now, so defining and diagnosing mental illnesses was not an issue, neither was talking about cultural factors in that. I guess it fulfilled its aim of providing an overview, but there was at no time any strategies given, any tactics and advice. There was a lot of case discussion, which I found incredibly useful except for the fact that the so-called psychologist/CALD worker did not actually help with any of the cases. She just confirmed the difficulty of the situation: nodding, shaking her head, “I know, I understand”’s, talking about similar cases but still not providing the solution…. I think the centre coordinator for one of the sites I work at asked the same question in 3 different ways (“I am finding that the people I refer to mental health services are referring back to me… what do I do in this case?”), only to be given the same answer over and over again (“Yes, that is difficult isn’t it”). Even the resources we were given were shocking: there was a mental health first aid manual there, of which the cover, first two pages and last page of the 58 page document were provided. I.e., NOTHING USEFUL. The only thing I could actually take away from all this was a diatribe the DIAC guy gave towards the middle of the session about self-care, stress and burnout.

During the speech, both of the ladies I work with turned to me and gave me a knowing look. Basically: take this guy’s advice. It was good to hear from someone other than A tell me these things. Straight after that speech, lunchtime, and I got a message from the psych ward asking me to work extra hours this coming public holiday (Melbourne Cup day – the horse races, for those who don’t know). I am meant to be working public holidays, that’s fine. Even though I was kind of hoping not to, it would’ve happened. Anyway – the message asked me to work the full 8 hours instead of 4. What’s annoying is that this just compounds the fact that I have no time to myself. I caved, and agreed to do the 8. At the same time, I was fuming. I was angry, my body temperature was up, I started getting anxious, and all I could think about was “quit this job, quit this job, quit this job.”

I came home that night, and drafted a resignation letter.

Wednesday morning.
E, the deputy director of the organisation that I’m on placement with, calls me for a short meeting.
He verbally offers me a permanent position at the Werribee office, and I accept.

Suddenly, everything feels good. I have job security. I can quit my job at the psych ward without guilt.

So I do. Thursday I send the e-mail, followed up by a letter in the post. The boss sends an e-mail back, which was tainted with annoyance and anger, but that’s none of my concern. Besides, they had been treating me like shit. The boss had been treating me like shit. And it is my right to resign whenever I please: I gave more than 2 weeks notice.

That’s that. A and I toasted the success of both situations, and I ride a high. It’s great. I will be getting paid for a job I love doing – all I need to remember between now and the end of placement is that I’m still learning – and I need to fulfill all criteria of my learning agreement rather than spending the majority of my time having handover with those leaving.

The beginning of next year will be seriously stressful. I will be one of two fulltime, paid caseworkers. In addition to this, I will be given the task of coordinating, facilitating, running adult and children’s homework programs, a youth camp for Sudanese and Karen kids, find volunteers for the sewing groups, organise the driver’s education program and start information sessions on housing in Australia. This is going to have to be a matter of time management. As well as proper consultation and supervision and with my weekends freed up, I need to spend that time RELAXING.

This is all next year’s issues.

There is but one moral dilemma I am left with. I hate leaving a place of employment on a bad note. Essentially, I don’t expect much from the ward as it is; they will probably not give too much of a shit whether I stay or go, and as far as being a referee for further jobs? That’ll probably be drafted on a boring pro forma. 

Having said that: this Tuesday that I’m being made to work? A wants me to just not show up. Call in sick. It’s going to look blatantly obvious that I’m just shitting all over what they’re making me do, and I don’t want to leave that way. On the other hand, they have continuously fucked me around over time. Should I not go? Or should I go? It’s not even about the money anymore: I’m on the student pension (Youth Allowance) so if I don’t go in, that means I get $240 from them. If I do go in, I get paid almost exactly the same amount, but won’t get anything from the government. Do the maths.

Either way, I lose.

Ugh. There is plenty more to write about – including A’s operation a couple weeks back – but this is the most I can offer for one post.