TheBanyanTree: Borderland, 4/2/05

[Monique Young]

We've slacked off on our reporting. In Borderland, things are quiet.
Everyone is striving for normalcy, though that is more a state of mind
than anything else. 
 
Stew is in California, and we've both had to relearn how to do things.
I, for example, can now, on the days I'm not scheduled to meet with
clients, stay in my office (aka, home) all day and work, and not see any
other people. In the morning my domestic partner is here, and at night,
and in between, I'm responsible for no one besides myself. And the dog.
And various clients in various stages of panic, but there are entire
days when even they are all quiet. They all think I'm working on their
problems is why, and they know that to leave me alone means I can,
perhaps, work faster. I try to bunch my client visits together, so I can
spend big blocks of time on one project or another, and other big blocks
of time going here and there. Yesterday, Friday, April 1st, I saw four
clients, one of them a new one, and didn't get home until 9. 
 
Anyway, this isn't about me. 
 
This is about our friend Stew. He's doing pretty well. Considering.
Considering, that is, that he's in an area where the options for
receiving help are severely limited. One therapist doesn't believe in
the borderline diagnosis. One doesn't treat people who self-harm. (But
who then told Stew when to come back, and about the self-harm issue
said, "Just don't do it anymore." Aw gee, why didn't anyone else think
of that?) Another therapist he had an appointment with was found to have
lost his license "back east," for unspecified reasons - he decided not
to go to that one. The community mental health office isn't quite sure
what to do with him. He's an oddity, as one evaluator there told him. He
doesn't use drugs, he doesn't drink, he's highly intelligent, and . . .
he has all his teeth. She's more used to dealing with what is typically
known as "dregs of society." 
 
So they put him in day camp. Three days a week. To learn basic social
skills apparently. Sigh. He said it felt like kindergarten. He missed
quite a few of the days for various reasons. I don't blame him. They
envision for him some sort of perhaps low-level job where he can be a
drone. 
 
He wants to go back to school and study statistics some more. He wants
to be an actuary. He wants to do more writing. He's checking into taking
classes. He's signed up for an online writing class with the local
college. He's selling things on ebay. He's DOING THINGS. 
 
He feels isolated at times. He feels . . . alone. He has his parents, he
has me, but it's so easy to lose touch with friends. He hasn't heard
from his best friend in several weeks. I told him today to give him a
call, that it's okay. I told him to talk to another old friend he sees
around town, that it's okay. He forgets that. He thinks no one wants to
hang around with him, that people avoid him. It's not true of course.
People like him, they just get wrapped up in their own lives. We all do.
It is true that some people don't know how to respond, and can't deal
with it, but that's not his fault. I tell him that. He's a likable guy.
He just needs more contact with more people. 
 
He's cut a few times since he moved to California. The first time his
mother dealt with it well - I'd told her it wasn't a big deal, he cleans
up after himself, usually it helps him feel a bit better (personally, I
think this method of self-medication is better than drinking or drugs,
both very common for people like him), and not to panic about it. I talk
or chat online with him daily, and with his mother. I reassure her, when
she doesn't know what to do, or how he is. One day I chatted with her
while I chatted with him at the same time, relaying information back and
forth on what the situation was, how he was, and what he was feeling. He
was in the same house she was, but didn't know how to communicate with
her what he was feeling without upsetting her. I am the universal
translator. Sometimes I can't tell how he is without hearing his voice,
so I call him. I do phone counseling. I make him laugh. I tell him
amusing stories about the Killing Machine. Sometimes, when I'm down
because I doubt myself, he helps me. He talks to me sternly, he tells me
how ridiculous I am, and he's right. 
 
I'm very proud of him. Like all of us, he's a work in progress, and the
important thing is that he is working on it. That's what matters; he
hasn't given up, he doesn't let his illness consume him. 
 
Monique