#directsupport

that I am a professional friend.

I am told

I am skilled at my job.

Tasks include-

Memorizing your second

and third favorite colors

in case of emergency-

in case the blue rag is dirty

and only green will do,

in case the world is already too loud

and the wrong shade tips it over.

Repeating a movie title

with blockbuster-level enthusiasm

after a week that has wrung you out-

“Madagascar 3! Europe’s Most Wanted!”

For the fourth time.

And adoring it.

Rooting through my closet

to find something pink for UNO night-

9 a.m. sharp-

because theme matters,

and showing up matters,

and losing in pink

is better than winning alone.

Okay.

That one isn’t exactly

in the job description-

more like avoiding

social suicide.

I am told

I am skilled at my job.

Workflow includes-

Sitting on the bench with B

at 8:45 a.m.,

the air still sharp,

as he cries about something

he’s held in for days,

thinking it’s small.

Listening like it isn’t.

High-fiving B

when the napkin arcs

in a perfect paper parabola

into the trash can-

both of us celebrating

like confetti should fall from the ceiling.

Owing B five dollars

because I underestimate

how serious he is about bets.

Going bowling.

Losing terribly.

Cheering anyway.

Learning the difference

between overstimulated

and overwhelmed.

Between quiet

and shut down.

Between “I’m fine”

and “It’s fine.”

That is barely scratching the surface

of how deeply

I get to know B.

I am told

I am skilled at my job.

I don’t care much

for the accolades-

not from coworkers

who call it “meaningful work,”

not from friends

who say, “I could never do that,”

not even from family

who are proud in the way

people are proud of something

they don’t fully understand.

It isn’t hard

to be good at loving someone

with your entire heart

when loving them

is the point.

Not everyone will understand that.

The praise that keeps me going

doesn’t arrive in performance reviews.

It arrives folded in crayon-

in my first, second,

and third favorite colors.

A get-well card

after one day away-

as if my absence left

an outline.

A last-minute drop-in to my classroom

just to wave,

just to make sure

I am still there.

And I know he says it to everyone.

I know that.

But still-

“You are my heart.”

He presses each word out carefully,

like something fragile.

It never loses its weight.

For that,

I am the richest

and the poorest

human alive.

Rich in trust.

Rich in inside jokes.

Rich in the way someone looks for me

in every room.

Poor in the way the world counts.

Poor in the way budgets are written.

Poor in the way compassion

is applauded

but not funded.

So pay direct support professionals more.

We are not just caregivers.

We are historians of favorite colors.

Witnesses to 8:45 a.m. tears.

Champions of napkin shots.

Keepers of five-dollar debts.

Professional friends.

We pour every drop of our souls

into work that asks for everything

and pays in gratitude.

And gratitude is beautiful-

but it does not cover rent.

We are needed.

And friendship-

real, relentless, whole-hearted friendship-

is not ridiculous.

This is mutual aid, not charity.

It’s direct support that moves faster than institutions and doesn’t require proof of suffering, paperwork, or performance.

Donating to me directly disrupts the status quo by stabilizing a real person instead of waiting for systems that only respond after damage is done.

If you can give, thank you.

If you can’t, reblogging is participation.

https://gofund.me/ba2c501b2

I just quit my job working as direct support for people with intellectual disabilities. This is the second time that I’ve worked for a company and it ended rocky. I always enjoy my time with the individuals it’s just the companies. They’re so grimy always trying to put their staff in shitty unpredictable situations.

I really liked working with these individuals. They were more relatable, some were the same age as me. It made me want to help them so much more.

I hope to find a company that provides amazing service for the individuals and their staff.

Blahhhhhhhhhhh