I don’t talk much about my day job on the blog because I generally try to keep the two worlds separate. In addition, I don't want to be seen as speaking on behalf of my day job (and within this post I am still not). There’s no reason one should affect the other and I find that my life is simply cleaner and easier to organize when certain things are properly compartmentalized. (This is, in fact, my general life strategy and so far it seems to be working out for me).
For those of you who don’t know – and I surmise that’s almost all of you – I work in social work during the day. I started by accidentally falling into a position at a group home and school for children. It was a Level 14 Living Facility, which is California’s sterile and woefully accurate clinical term for One Step Below an Asylum. It was a place where the kids were sweet, but if one of them had a blowout and decided to strip down naked before climbing to the roof of the nearby post office before throwing roofing tiles at nearby police who are attempting to coax him down, well, that was a Tuesday for me. It was a controlled environment for round the clock therapeutic care.
Most of these kids were here because of mental problems brought on by years of abuse of many kinds. They were the extreme and a reminder that no one in the world is born troubled or bad, but because of the situations they've often been placed in.
After that I moved on to working as an office manager at a different a site where we focused more on child and family therapy. Eventually I left that and moved into a stint as an assistant pastry chef before going back to a world where I didn't burn myself as often and could use health benefits when I did. Currently, I do administrative work that also includes working with children directly for a non-profit whose primary goal is placing children in the foster care system with adoptive permanent families.
I no longer do intensive treatment of any kind with kids because I find I’m rather as emotionally equipped to deal with these things as much as a pack of wild dingoes are properly equipped to run a day care. Usually, I find myself rather stupefied and break down in fits of crying or rage out at how God/the world/people/whathaveyou could allow some adults to raise – a word I use very liberally in this case – children.
Now, I don’t have children. In fact, I don’t plan to anytime soon. Fiancé and I have discussed the topic and as far as we see it we’re going to wait about ten years and then look into adopting a child between the ages of four and ten.