We now interrupt your regularly scheduled Poop House Chronicle reading for this commercial break.
Basically, I need a break from thinking about the poop house, and despite your dedicated and intense need to continue following, I think you all need a little break too.
Perhaps I should use this time wisely and at least mention a few things about the poop house posts. It won't get me away from thinking about the poop house, but there isn't any genuine way of escaping it for me anymore.
First off, let me state that the posts are composed very deliberately. I realize that I have been very detailed about my experiences without covering much time at all. In terms of actual time on my service, we've only covered a week, and the initial venture into the home while they were on Julie's service. I haven't even ventured back into the house yet since my training day experience. And yet, I've managed 4 LENGTHY posts on the topic.
I assure you that while I have laid an intensely detailed groundwork upon which we will continue to tread, not every venture into the house will be so heavily reported. I had the family on my service for over nine months, and while many of my daily or near daily visits were forever seared into my memory, many of the days ran together. Many of the days were very similar. The stand-out days are the ones which will be recounted for you. But when dealing with a place so foul, a stand-out day has to be something really genuinely remarkable, and never for a pleasant reason. I have composed the posts in the manner you find so riveting for a very specific reason. I feel it is important for me to hook you with these details now in order to keep you reading later. There are many genuinely unpleasant and vomit-inducing things ahead. If I captivate you now, it is intentional to ensure that you share in my horror later.
I assure you that while I bring you along to share in the experience, recounting it for you brings no relief or catharsis for me. As Traci so aptly stated in her recent comment, like anyone who has seen awful things, (soldiers, abuse victims, and other casualties of the more awful end of the spectrum of modern experiences,) these are things that stay with us and cause us to be damaged goods. We move on and live and work past these horrific experiences not only because we have to, but because if we didn't, the world would be that much worse that we suffered the experiences and did nothing with the knowledge gained. Furthermore, if we didn't press on, we would be equal victims of the tragic system and its antiquated standards which hurt almost as many as they heal. I refuse to be a victim of that system. And I refuse to believe that while I went into that house alone every day, that I should be the only one to know the fetid world which lay inside.
What is worse is that while this is supposed to be one of the worst cases on the books, the fact is that there are many more cases of similar nature which I have no doubt have gone unreported. There are cases in other communities. There are cases in other states. There are cases where people don't know how to fix anything, so they do nothing. There are cases where people go in and do the work but don't tell of the horrors they've seen. My fear is that these cases are more common than many of us would like to imagine. My story ensures that while I won't violate a client's confidentiality, I will not have experienced these things idly.
I hope you understand.
I also feel the need to point out that, yes, the child was living in the home the entire time I had the case. This alone should make your blood boil. If you are not already irate at the very idea of this, then details to come should send you over the edge. The fact that I reported every last detail of what I saw to a state case manager who was legally responsible for the welfare of the child, and the case worker did nothing should make you irate beyond words. Many of you might wonder why I didn't do anything myself to see that the child was removed. The fact is that every second of my work with that family was spent either working directly with them to improve conditions for the sake of the child, documenting the foulness of the home so that there was no way that the state case worker could say he didn't know, or directly stating to the case worker that there is no excuse for a child to still be living in that filth. And not for a lack of effort, nothing happened.
I'm not composing this series in order to garner sympathy from any of you, though I do appreciate that you sympathize. I appreciate that you come back and share in this with me. The fact is that I am writing these things because they are an ugly truth that I feel everyone should know about, and which I have finally processed enough on a personal level to share with whomsoever chooses to continue reading. If at any point you feel that you cannot deal with what you've read here, I understand, but I ask you to understand that I had to live it, forced to continue reliving it day after day, not fairly compensated for my efforts, and was made to feel guilty for being upset enough to seek outlets for my ire. What is almost worse than having the case itself, was the way that the company treated me and others in similar positions, even going so far as to deny us access to professional counseling outlets despite specializing is such services.
While I know that this is not really a break from the poop house chronicles, it at least informs you a little more in depth so that you know why I share these stories.
And now, here's a picture of a cute little bunny rabbit!
AWWWW! Look at that cute little guy!