#thebadsocialworker

I think I will tell some stories about me for awhile:

TW: child abuse stuff n other traumatic bullshit

I was conceived on a holiday and born 9 months later, 6 minutes after midnight. I don't remember anything, obviously, until consciousness hit me one day in the 90's.

I'm 3 years old. It's fuckin cold outside. My mom just brought home a baby. Some months went by and he eventually was moved into a crib in his own room down the hall. I used to steal my mother's sketch pads and hide under his crib all day. I would make drawings of him. My mother would get so angry when she found out I had drawn in her sketchbook. To be fair I found it a few years ago and it was a fuckin' bienfang pad.

I was fascinated with how he just laid there, no pillow, blankets, nothing. Just sleeping. He was a quiet and very cute baby. I spent a lot of time in his room just being in there. My mother would come and I would hide under the crib until she left again. She would be angry if I was in there.

After my birth my mother was diagnosed with a progressive autoimmune disease. I was able to spend so much time in my baby brother's room because until I went to pre-school, I spent hours alone in our house. My other brother was at school, my Dad was at work, and my mother would be laying ill in her bed, every day. Shades pulled, fan on high, puke bag next to her bed. I used to watch her sleep from the cracks in the doorway.

Left to my own devices, I would climb on counters to get snacks in the cupboards, I took out every single toy I had, every book, every dress. I'd do little craft things for my mom. Color, sticker book pages, random other shit. She would wake up and I would have something for her and she would immediately yell at me about the mess I made for her. She would never even say anything about the present I was giving her. It was almost worse that I had done it at all.

She was always angry. She had to give herself medicine via injection. This eventually saved her, decades later, but they gave her flu-like symptoms. I saw this once when I was 3 and I cried. Today I don't fear needles at all. I have a ton of tattoos and piercings. I also still like giving presents, ironically repeating the trauma for a different outcome, but fuck people love the shit I find them.

Life continued like that for awhile. Alone all day, making messes and continually being punished upon my mother's waking. Sometimes she sent me to be with my grandma, who I found out at 10 was also a complete psychopath, but that's going to be a different post. Fuck my grandma, I can't wait to tell you the stories.

Anyways, eventually I was put into preschool. A significant memory at this time was when my mother was driving me to pre-school and she drove the van into the back of another car. She was speeding like a dumbass and then blamed the other woman, like she was outside a school dropping her kid off, what the fuck, you know?

Airbags went off and you COULD NOT breathe in there. I don't know what my mother was doing but my baby brother, couldn't breathe. It smelled like smoke in there and, gunpowder. I got out and whipped the van door open so my brother could breathe some air. Some police and a fire truck came and they took me to pre-school. I wanted to go play, I didn't want to go home.

This was traumatic in itself, I still get sick thinking about having to drive on the highway. What made it worse was when I was telling my mother how much it affected me years later, she had some shitty, selfish reaction, and then invalidated my feelings. My baby brother sucks at driving, he's a grown man now.

As an adult, I know there were 4 seasons in a year, but I only have memories of the summertime until I'm about 7. My first fuckin conscious winter. Different post.

So I'm about like, 5 now right? In pre-school. I miss that place. I drive by it all the time in the middle of the night and sometimes i just want to go look. Just stand back there where we buried the hamster (I can't believe my preschool had us have a funeral and burial for a hamster, we didn't even know what death was. What the hell was going on?)

Anyways, there's a ghost of me there in my purest form. Playing, laughing, running, hiding. I wish I could see her again. It wasn't long after 5 that she faded away into oblivion. My childhood was so traumatic, what I'm telling you feels as if I'm recounting the life of someone else.

Consciousness obviously hit me at 3, but I feel as if I was born when I was 18. Like everything before that was a movie or awful book I read. When I try to think about me being a child once, I almost like, don't believe it. When I see pictures or videos of myself when I was a child, it's like watching someone who died a long time ago.

I don't identify with that child. I know it's me. I think I can describe it as if someone showed me a picture of me as a child and told me a story about me, it feels as if I'm outside looking in at someone else's life. Then I put the picture down and don't feel anything else. Like it's a story about a long lost relative. It doesn't register as an experience belonging to me.

I tore up all my baby pictures, the majority of them, and threw them into the shred bins at my job one day a year ago. They make me extremely uncomfortable to look at. I do not like them. I was basically, born an 18 year old woman. Ragingly mentally ill, and still unhinged decades later.

This contributes to me feeling like a "bad" social worker. I have to pretend everyday that this is not my mental experience outside of work. People depend on me to be responsible, rational, and stable. It sucks. I just wanna do hoodrat stuff with my friends (that I don't have, because I don't like people, surprise).

Maybe the stories I've been writing haven't been that interesting. This is kind of some fucked up shit, but some of it is really crazy, like praying for big tits and then guess what happened. I'll tell you later.

Hope you find a good rocking chair to sit in, they're fuckin sick.

I woke up to several missed calls on my phone. A voicemail:

“Hey, it’s JOHN. I need your help. I’m at my P&P office… Toni needs you to come this morning. I’ll be waiting, I’m in some trouble. Thanks dear. Bye”

I got in my car and drove downtown to the P&P office. When I walked in John grunted “over here”. He was sitting on a bench in a flannel and overalls. “I can’t get up, my chest hurts. My whole fuckin body hurts.” I signed in at the desk so Toni would know I was here and we could start the appointment. Toni is John’s parole officer. 

I sit by John on the bench while we wait for Toni. “I’m in some big trouble young lady. You know my truck?” The door buzzed and a woman walked through “John?” “TONIIIII.” John struggled to stand up. He coughed and wheezed. Toni waved John down for any metal objects and then brought us through to the office on the other side.

The office is a strange building with highly inconveniently placed pillars and abnormally low ceilings. The stair case was wide enough for 6 people but only went up one floor. The water fountain was placed in what looked to be a hollowed out closet.

“John, would you like to tell her what happened to you this weekend?” Toni sat at her desk, slightly amused but trying to hide this from John as not to encourage him. “Did you know, John isn’t supposed to be driving?” I was not aware of this. 

“It’s ok, I understand John is a new client to you, but not to me. John is not allowed to drive, he’s not allowed to own a car…” 

“Here we go” John tried to sit back but ended up hurting himself and coughing.

“What do you mean, ‘here we go’, John, tell her what happened.”

John shifts in his chair and turns to me, trying to hide his toothless smile from Toni.

“Well, I bought this car from this crackhead. He said it was beat up but it worked. So I bought it and was driving it around, it was working fine, I don’t know what happened.” John laughed.

“I went to the food pantry, they were serving salisbury steak, I mean it’s really just patties, but they also had mashed potatoes. You know I don’t have any teeth, so I love mashed potatoes. I can eat a patty. So I loaded up this to-go box and went driving. I was eating the food while I was driving down a hill. The fuckin brakes gave out and I hit the back of this lady’s car.” John is laughing harder but also coughing from the pain.

“Ohh, I injured my chest, I’m trying not to laugh. The mashed potatoes went everywhere. I had mashed potatoes all down my back, salisbury patty in my shirt, I had some in my nose. The front of the car, just covered in food.”

Toni is trying not to laugh by looking down at her desk and fiddling with some papers. “So anyways, this is a violation of his parole.”

“I told that fucker I bought the car from that the brakes didn’t work, he said ‘oh yeah’. He still wants $600.00 from me for the car I told him to go fuck himself.”

“Where is the car now?” I asked.

“Smashed! Gone. It went to the pound, whatever the fuck the word is.” John waved his hand.

“John, I don’t know what the consequence is going to be for this, but there will be one. I don’t know what to do with you, I have to think about it because you just returned from ‘more restrictive’. I actually cannot send you back for another 90 days per funding policy.”

“Just throw me in jail, I don’t care. I can do 3 weeks.” Toni just stared at John. “That’s the problem. That’s the entire problem.”

“If the car hadn’t been a lemon.” John stated, completely denying any responsibility.

“John you’re not legally allowed to own vehicles. Whether it is functional or not.” Toni clasped her hands and the room was silent for about two minutes while John closed his eyes and breathed heavily.

After the accident John was seen at an A&E for a chest injury but was discharged with Tylenol.

“All they gave me was this fuckin baby aspirin.” Toni and I watch John as he rubs his chest. “So is this over now ? I need to get to the food pantry before they stop serving lunch.” John opened his eyes and smiled at Toni.

Toni looked endearingly at John. John was a likable person despite many, many rough edges. He was typically jovial even when he was insulting someone or other. It was an odd way of existing, I had never met someone so horribly charming.

John and I left the office and in the parking lot I asked him if he needed a ride to the food pantry. 

“No, no. I’ve got a ride. Don’t tell Toni.” He winked with his bad eye and started walking toward a bike rack. I was expecting him to unlock one of the bikes, but that was naive of me. Of course he was not riding a bike across town to the food pantry. He stepped onto an electric scooter, waved at me, and then pulled into the street almost immediately blocking traffic and amassing a large caravan of pissed off drivers behind him. 

This 300 lb man with no teeth, bald, with a glass eye only moving about 20 mph down the street on a tiny electric scooter was easily the most absurd thing I would see all day.

I got back into my car and had another voicemail:

“Hey, I…This is Cora. I think you’re my case manager… can you call me I just remembered I missed our appointment and I really need to go to the store, maybe tomorrow? Let me know, bye.”

I drove to my office to complete some paperwork and when I reached my desk there was a file as thick as a telephone book sitting there with a sticky note on the top:

Records for CM, delivered today. Take the afternoon to read. Thanks, -Kim<3

My coworker, Vi took me to meet my next client. Suresh primarily speaks Hindi, and very little French. He lives in a transitional housing complex and we are taking him to see his parole officer before he fully transitions to my caseload until his program discharge date in 4 months.

Its bitterly cold, the wind cuts across the car strong enough to feel it. "He's coming out." Vi points to a man in an oversized parka hes pulling tightly arpund his body. The wind whips his coat as he runs to the car.

(For your convenience, the conversations between Vi and Suresh will be written here in English though they are speaking Hindi).

"Suresh, peace. How have you been brother?" Suresh pulls down his hood and puts his seatbelt on. Vi turns to him, and Suresh nods.

"Suresh, this is my coworker, she's going to be taking over your case until you discharge in 4 months, brother." I turned to the backseat to see Suresh.

Suresh was about 36 years old. He had fair features, a dark complexion, and a mustache. His hair was thick and curly, and showed no signs of receding. His eyebrows, just as thick as his mustache.

"Enchante sieur, je suis ___________." Suresh looked me dead in the eyes and nodded.

"Suresh, she is very nice brother. She only speaks French, but we have made that work so far, have you been practicing your French brother?" In the rearview mirror I could see Suresh nod.

The car ride to the parole office was mostly silent after this conversation save for a few coughs. Suresh stared out the window and barely moved. After we parked, we all ran to the parole office like chickens to escape the brutality of the wind.

After checking in, Suresh's parole agent came to the door to bring us back to her office. Suresh's parole agent was a 5'1" woman named Yushi in her late 20's. She was also an immigrant from somewhere in India who was granted her naturalization only a few years ago. She is fluent in Hindi, French, and English.

Vi introduces Yushi and I, and then Yushi gets immediately to the point, quite startling. I'm unsure of the majority of the conversation between Yushi and Suresh, although Suresh classically just nods or doesn't, depending on his answer.

"SURESH" she turns to him and speaks Hindi very quickly, in a very animated fashion. Vi is watching both Suresh and Yushi. Suresh largely stares, frustrating Yushi. Yushi pulls some books out from her desk and slides them across the table, telling Suresh something that Vi explained to me later. The books looked Hindi to French practice books. Suresh says only one thing after receiving the books, very quietly, in Hindi to Yushi.

Yushi basically explodes after Suresh spoke for the first time. The appointment continues in Hindi for another 30 minutes. I stare at maps on the wall and other office garbage, like the filing cabinets behind Yushi that were overflowing with manila folders torn at the edges.

When the appointment ends it had started sleeting outside. Crystals of freezing rain burning our cheeks and hands as we ran to the car. My legs are wet and numb by the time I sit down.

The car ride is silent and Vi looks very serious. Suresh states out the window holding the books he was given by Yushi. When we arrived at the housing complex, Suresh practically sprung out of the car, silently, but indicating his intense desire to not be there anymore. "He left his books."

Vi grabs the books and gets out of the car where he sprints to catch Suresh before he makes it inside. Vi grabs his shoulder and Suresh shook before he turned around. I watch Vi hand Suresh the books. Suresh doesnt move to accept the books.

Vi stands there, and then they both go in the lobby together. Vi is still holding the books and Suresh had put his hood back up, completely disappearing in his parka.

After 15 minutes Vi comes back out and explains to me what I had missed.

"Yushi is his new parole agent. His last one got promoted, a French guy. Yushi was basically telling him, 'Suresh- no more excuses.' Yushi is an immigrant, she said 'Suresh, to stay here, to make anything of a life here, you need to learn French.' She said, she knows he can do it because she did it. Thats when she handed him the books."

"What did he say that made her so mad?"

Vi laughs, he said "he more or less told her 'we already have a problem. I dont like you." Vi laughed harder. "Yushi then said 'I dont care if you like me, this is not- you listen to me. I have the authority here.' After that she just kind of, asked him what the hell he's thinking. For Suresh, hes older than Yushi, so that is, not enchanting to him. He obviously left the books because he doesnt want to learn, but he will have to move out upon his discharge from the program, so she has a point."

"So how am I supposed to talk to Suresh?" Vi starts pulling out of the parking lot. "You really dont. He prefers not to speak anyways, even Hindi." I was confused.

"How am I supposed to help him?"

I was finishing my cigarette, looking at the MPF building. It’s a converted hotel from the 1800s that’s now strictly women’s housing. It’s classically red brick with a copper roof and long spires at the top. There’s a ghost sign at the entrance from when it was still “Hotel Mars”. It can be inferred it likely opened during March. 

Women come out of the revolving doors in the front. The revolving doors still appear to be original, they’re very tiny, and a worn golden color. Ladies squish together in their coats, some to others dismay resulting in loud squabbles upon entering the environment. No children are allowed in the building, or men. There’s a curfew and everyone has someone to visit.

Today is a late appointment for me. They’re usually scheduled early in the morning, but it’s currently about 2:20 PM. My next client isn’t a “morning person”. 

When you enter the lobby, there is a check-in desk. It’s absolute chaos. Women are everywhere, chatting, laughing, shouting at each other when one leaves. The phones are ringing. There’s no computers, everything is done by hand at the desk. The lobby is still very old and untouched. There are posters lining the walls, each with a poster of a resource or an event.

“Madame ? Madame? Everyone needs to check in. Are you a visitor ? Do you need housing ? Give me a second Emmy, just-” A small woman from the front desk yelled at me, she was attempting to leave the cubicle area but she was being trapped by a resident asking about her mail. “Emmy, please the mail just got here.” I approached the desk.

 “No, no. I’m from _____________. I’m here to meet with… Coralie?” The woman had curly, wild red hair. She had already put the glasses that were on a beaded chain on and was flipping through a yellow legal pad filled with illegible writing on the desk. 

“Cora ! Yes.” She stopped, “Emmy, can you please give us some space this is a priiiiiivate matter.” Emmy was still standing at the cubicle blocking the exit. “Emmy, how about I BRING you, your mail hmm ? How about that. Would that be just… then you can join the others upstairs ok? I will bring you your mail.” 

Emmy was an older woman, who was very round in appearance. She had a bowl cut, and was only about 5 feet tall. She shot me a suspicious glance.

“Better not be about me.” She said as she turned her back and waddled towards the elevators. 

“Oh gosh, I didn’t even, I am Laurie. I’m one of the house managers. I manage, well, I. Anyways, CORA.” Laurie seemed exasperated but also very excited. She was wearing an orchid colored dress and a lanyard with her ID picture in it. Upon glances, I noticed her ID picture was probably from 20 years ago.

“Cora. She lives in 512, she signed out around 11…I have the exact, written down” she tries to thumb through a check-in pad that basically looks like bathroom graffiti with the amount of names on it. “That’s ok, I don’t, need that. Where did she go?”

She continues looking and then switches to a pad on a clipboard. “When I find it, I’ll…do you use email? Wait, that’s… I think that’s in the back. The laptop. Mariah, Mar- oh she’s busy right now.” Laurie is now writing a note to herself, I assume, to find the laptop and to email me later.

“That’s really ok, it’s fine. Where did she leave to go?” 

“Cora… Well.” She takes off her glasses. “I don’t like to ask, I don’t advise it. Many of the residents here…I mean, you know. They’ve been in some trouble. A lot of that trouble comes from, men, frankly.” She scoffed. “Don’t get me wrong I was married, I love my kids, but I do not miss…my ex-husband’s drinking.” Laurie shakes her head.

“Some of the girls have told me she might be dating. A MAN. I think Mariah has seen her get dropped off a few times. I, Mariah! Mari? Oh she’s still busy, ok.” I look over to whom I believe is Mariah and she’s sitting in her chair talking to another resident, laughing. “Anyways, I think that might be, where she is. I reminded her, you would be coming, when she left, I said ‘CORA, appointment today’. I said it pretty loud.” Laurie laughed.

“Okay, can I wait in your lobby for her ?” Laurie claps “Absolutely! ABsolUtely. Yes. Can I get you, well, would you… do you need water, juice ?” Laurie walked me over to a table to sit at. I declined the offer. The elevator binged and Emmy waddled out. “Emmy, what can I help you with now, hmmm? The mail is still being sorted.” Laurie places her arm around Emmy and the two of them walk back toward the cubicle.

I sit in the lobby and wait for Cora. She never makes an appearance before my work day ends. Effectively missing our first appointment. It’s dark outside now, and there’s traffic downtown. Multiple taxis and other cars dropping various residents off before curfew. 

Cora was an unexpected client. She was not referred to me the same way as my other clients. I usually get a three month’s notice before I get a client. During that time, I study them and their histories. I only had a month prior to receiving Cora on my caseload. She was transferred from a different province having already worked with another case manager for the last year. 

The file I received was subpar at best. Her history was limited to the last year and some history from when she was incarcerated several years ago. All I know about Cora is that she was incarcerated for 3 years, released 2 years ago. She has diagnoses of bipolar, opioid use disorder, post traumatic stress disorder, and borderline personality disorder. 

I don’t know any other details of her incarceration other than what the formal charge is. Loosely translating it as “aggravated domestic assault”. Where I live, that typically implies there was an assault between two people in a domestic relationship, and in this case, she likely had a weapon, resulting in the aggravation. The other party may or may not have been seriously injured.

It was snowing and I was driving to a prison to prepare my client for release. The prison floods occasionally, sometimes creating a type of moat around the property.

After getting checked in I was brought to a secure office room. I couldnt tell if it was painted yellow or if it was just an old room. It was very cold. The metal table in front of me, scratched with various things, but there was one that caught my attention.

"Longer than Ive been alive, 2007 KD."

The door buzzed and my client entered the room. He was dressed in a teal jumpsuit.

"Jean-Baptiste?" "Tizzy, but yeah." Tizzy is only 26. He's a short and strong looking young man with dreads to his shoulders. He has smooth forearms and hands like bear paws. I introduce myself.

"You're release is coming up next month, how do you feel?" "Fine, I guess." "Are you excited?" "Im just going back to the block." Tizzy's eyes are deeply hooded and covered by his hair.

Tizzy's file was an intimidating one. Diagnoses of antisocial personality disorder, a trauma history, depression. Tizzy's voice has no intonation, its very flat and absent of life.

Tizzy was raised by a single Haitian mother who immigrated as a refugee around his birth. She may have even been pregnant when she fled. He's never met his father and has 2 younger half sisters. His mother struggled with addiction and he was largely forced to start providing for the family around 13.

He joined a gang and began to sell methamphetamine at 14, when he dropped out of 8th grade. His mother's house was raided when he was 16 and she ended up in prison, taking the blame for the entirety of drug activity in the home to protect Tizzy. He and his siblings were placed into foster care, where he promptly ran away. He lived in a trap house on the west coast until he turned 18.

Later that year, Tizzy was riding with several kilos of meth. He was driving, without a license when a deer jumped in front of the truck causing it to flip several times, killing the passenger. Tizzy was unconscious but eventually woke up in the hospital slapped with a litany of felony drug trafficking charges. He was sentenced to 7 years in prison. No one ever visited him. His younger half sisters still in foster care, "i dont even really know them. Theyre like 12 or 14 now."

"What are your plans for when you get out ?"

"Nothing. I dont know." Tizzy clearly was not interested in the meeting and was largely just checking off a box.

"OK well, how about this. Let's talk about where youre moving." "Id rather not. I already know im going to a halfway house. That shits bogus as hell. Can you get me a hotel room?"

"I cant, we dont have those-" He rolled his eyes and sat back in his chair.

"When I get out, we go shopping right?" I agreed. He rolled his lips back and tried to hide his smile. "Man I havent had fresh boxers in so long. My balls itch in these." He starts to laugh. "Sorry, I dont me to be, you know, but im just telling you as a man, its very important."

"Do you, I dont know if i can ask this. Do you think you can do something for me?"

"And what is that?"

Tizzy makes a face and then says "nah nevermind. Ill figure it out." He looked down at the table in a moment of softness.

"OK, Well feel free to ask me for help, thats why Im here." "Yeah..." he didnt sound convinced and his flatness had returned.

"Tizzy, where's your Mom?" "Dead. I dont know. Fuck that bitch." I caught a glimpse of his anger before it returned to vacancy again.

"My bad I wasn't aware" "shit me either, I havent seen her since that day. I dont wanna talk about this. Are we done ? Can I just go back to my cell?" Tizzy began to get agitated.

We were not done, but theres one more meeting with him scheduled before his release. Since he was becoming agitated I agreed we could end early.

"Thank God" "OK but Tizzy before I go, do you think you might be able to come up with some goals to talk about the next time I see ypu?" "Sure." He's already standing at the door waving the guard over.

"Well it was nice to meet you Tizzy." "Yeah" and he was out the door without looking back.

I walked through the mixture of mud and snow, soaking into my shoes. When I got in my car, there was a truck parked in front me, the license plate reading:

EST84KD

My next client lived an hour away from Mathieu, closer to the city. The city in this case being a town of 18,000 people. He lived in an apartment over a laundromat. The brick on the building looked like it was slowly disintegrating into dirt. The paint on the window sills was chipped. The parking lot was filled with potholes.

There's only a single flat about the laundromat. I walk up a stairs case on the back, outside of the building to reach his door. After I knocked I observed some dents in the door that looked like it belonged to a fist. The door opened to a chain lock. A man peered outside at me. Closed the door, and the opened it fully.

"Hello, are you?"

He stared at me blankly. "Ouay" and I crept inside, the floor creaking beneath me. The wood is caked in dirt, dust, and ash. The top of the floor in some areas was just pure board. I found out why shortly.

"Max" He begins to pace. His English is poor and sporadically uses French slang in place of English slang. He prefers French.

"Im your new case manager. I wanted to meet you today-"

"And do what ? What?" He stopped and stared. "Oh, youre here for me."

It was obvious to me he was experiencing internal stimuli as congruent with his list of diagnoses I received. He takes an injection and is probably due for another one, but thats not something I was there for, on that day.

I asked Max to tell me about himself. He paced again. Max was a very thin, tall man in his mid-40s. He had sharp cheekbones and small blue eyes. He was bald, and his arms covered in scars.

Max frequently forgot what I had asked him. Whenever he heard a voice he would stop pacing, and then begin pacing again when it was over.

"Im not that old" he said sharply. I had not said anything about his age. "Im 46. A cancer. My mother, she had me and my brothers..." he stopped and stared.

"Oh yeah that was funny. He did fall on his head." Max frequently made random statements like this due to whatever he was hearing.

To make this easier for you, Max is 46. He grew up with 4 older brothers who were mostly out of the house by his birth. His Mother's brother was also afflicted with schizophrenia and cognitive disabilities. In the folder given to me, his uncle wandered away one night from his group home and was found frozen to death a few days later in a nearby wheat field. Max also has a history of disappearances.

His first psychotic break happened when he was 22. He didnt go to college, instead pursuing work in kitchens, explaing the scars on his arms and hands. He started to refuse to enter the coolers, believing they were actually CIA rooms that transmitted thoughts into his brain. He especially hated rutabegas. For some reason, he began to steal the rutabegas. He was caught smashing them in the alley behind the restaurant screaming "fuck you, I know youre in there!"

He continued to cycle in and out of jail for random bouts of aggression when he was off his medications, but never received anything more than a misdemeanor. Many disorderly conduct charges.

The first time Max disappeared, he was tracked to an airport on the otherside of the country. Footage shows him leaving the airport without anything, no bags. From there, he was missing for several months until he was identified at a hospital in an extremely rural vllage. He has no recollection of these events and its unknown how he managed to get there without a car. Max was about 28 around this time.

The second time Max disappeared, he wasn't gone for long. He left his mother's house one Spring Sunday to go to a bakery for the upcoming holiday. He was found 3 days later, naked in a woman's backyard shed sleeping. He was holding a scythe.

Max was then institutionalized for some time. He has an extensive care plan. At 46, he now lives on disability and social payments. His apartment is mostly bare but at least 30 copper cooking pots hung from his kitchen ceiling. His fridge is empty.

When Max was assigned to me, it was stressed that he will disappear if hes not well, and is at risk of the same fate of his uncle. Max believes as long as hes moving around, its harder for the CIA to transmit thoughts into his head, which is why he paces excessively, even while hes medicated. Obviously this is exacerbated while symptomatic.

I thanked him for telling me about himself over the last hour. He stopped pacing.

"Today, and then next Tuesday. Not tomorrow. Youre coming back next Tuesday?" I agreed, Tuesdays would be the day we meet. I slid him the folder containing the "homework" for the week.

The things I give Max are largely to help create a consistent tie to reality via tracking his activities during the day. Basically, by doing various tasks and being mentally involved in them, it helps Max stay grounded in reality. It will take time, but it is possible to repair this.

"I dont have a pen" I gave him a sharpie from My bag "...do you have green ?" "No, sorry, only blue." Max told me to keep it, "no i dont want it. Take it back."

Before I left, Max yells from the living room, which is only several feet away, "Oh and I dont think I need my injection I dont like it."

I already knew, I said we can talk about it next week. Max paces as I close the door.

I walked to the front of the camper and knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked again, no answer. The third time is always the charm. "Mon DIEU..." i hear banging around in the camper, causing it to shift. The door opens.

There stands a tall, thin shirtless man of about 50. He apologizes in French and the closes the door. It opens a minute later and he had a sweatshirt on. The front of it had "1977" in big letters. He put the hood up over his cropped, greying hair. His hands, long and bony, covered in welding scars and burns.

"Come in, please, please." I stepped inside. The camper was largely bare of any decor or objects. There was an ashtray, a small TV, and a stack of paper plates on the counter.

"You're are my new case manager, no ? ___________?" I agreed that was me, and my name. "Oui, I remember being told this...you would be coming." He apologized, "My english...only so good, no?" He laughed.

"And you are ? Mathieu? Am I saying that right?" "Oui, oui. Yeah that is good."

Mathieu was a jovial man. He had dark circles underneath his glowing blue eyes. Stubble, an aquiline nose, and a tattoo on the side of his neck, "jessy". Faded by now, but it's was vivid in more ways than one, once.

Mathieu and I sat down in the front seats of the camper so he could roll down the window and smoke. I ask him to tell me about his life. (He delivered the following answer in both French and English, but for your convenience, I will write it in English.)

"What is there to tell? I have been out for ehhhh...one year? A year and some months. I did time in ______________ on the west. I work as a welder for industrial machinery used for, the forests. I have a girlfriend, Willow...I don't know what else." Mathieu blows a cloud of smoke out the window.

"OK Mathieu, can you tell me a little bit about your sobriety ? How's that journey been for you ?" He let out a sigh and a laugh. "Oh no! Naughty eh?" He threw the cigarette out the window in a defeated manner, stretched himself out and yawned.

"Oui, so I always used a little, cocaine and marijuana as a teenager. Alcohol of course. I started working, doing labor, mining for iron, no? I injured my back, needed the surgery, and then they gave me pain medication, eh. After long time, they stop giving them to me, but my back is still in so much pain, eh...friend of mine gives me some heroin. He told me, it would help so I could still work. And I did no ? For some years..."

Mathieu's face shifted from somber to smiling, "and i know you have read the rest, no? So you don't need me to tell you eh?" Mathieu laughed and then pulled his hoodie up to hide in it as a joke. He turned the camper on to run the heat.

Mathieu did 15 years in prison. He claims to be sober currently.

"Mathieu, we don't have to get into all of that other stuff now. We will talk about it, probably the next time I see you. I like to warn people to be prepared for emotionally stressful appointments."

I pulled out "the packet". "Mon dieu, another one?" Mathieu jokes. "Yes, so you already know what this is ?"

"...oui." Mathieu is trying to be serious, but I can see he wants joke about this further.

"Just look through it, and think about it. Answer some of the questions if you can."

"I should give you my old one from prison no? Could you even tell uh ?" He lights another cigarette. "I won't, i won't. I'm joking."

I explained that I will see Mathieu again next week. He agreed and walked me through the camper to the door. When I stepped outside, I saw a rabbit hop into the broken window of his hatchback. He must have seen it too,

"Merde ! Get the fuck...Get!" While cursing in French, Mathieu turned back into the camper and came back out with a pool net. In his French ranting he says:

"Don't shit in my car ! Don't shit! Fucking rabbit! Get the fuck out of my car you're going to shit! I will catch you this time!"