Today I decided to begin writing about the things that have been happening to me and my family. Well, by decided I mean I was guided to make this decision by my clinical psychologist. She thinks it is good if I do the majority of the leg-work to ‘cure’ myself. Empowerment, she says, is the best way of helping me help myself. So, if I’m honest, she does very little. I don’t feel ’empowered’, I don’t feel right. I feel like I’m asking for solutions and being told I already have them. I wouldn’t ask if I already knew the answer. So I’ve stopped asking. Sessions last as long as you might expect it takes for us to get to a point where we have scratched the surface. Then the session ends and I’m told to ‘work on this’. Then I’m given a time to next meet; I always have to reschedule the time as it clashes with school pick up times. I need to pick up my brother; my mother sure as hell won’t. I hate rescheduling these meetings as I often feel that this is a bad thing to do; as if I’m ‘disengaging from a useful service’. 

I am 16 years old and I have a social worker. She is nice, but she took my sister away. And regardless of how nice she is I will always remember that. I want to talk, but her questions are stupid and this makes me feel like she thinks I’m stupid. ‘How are you today?’ I’m great. I have a father who’s in prison and I have been left with a mother who blames me for telling on her husband. Every time she asks a question I feel like she wants to ask a different question. She’s scratching the surface. Just barely.

We are poor. I know this because I live it. We are unfortunate and due to this need help. Decisions had to be made, I guess. Some decisions I liked, some I didn’t. The decisions I didn’t like were the ones that broke us up. The decisions that made the most change. The decisions which destroyed what I thought was ‘normal’. I don’t blame the social worker, she did help and is trying to continue to help. However, I still do not know why Lucy was removed whilst my brother and I were left here to rot. Dad is in prison now, but he was only part of the problem. There was something at the core of our family which led to this mess and removing family members does not resolve it. The social worker has mentioned the phrase ‘permanency planning’ a few times when we have asked if Lucy is coming home, however remains very vague about this. She has never told me straight: ‘Yes, Lucy will definitely be returning home.’

Since the event, mother has changed. She doesn’t talk to me much anymore. In the mornings she’ll pour a cup of tea just for herself. I’ve noticed this and I think my brother has too. The scripts have changed and mother refuses to read from them. We’ve had a number of family group conferences, but all they do is prove to everyone how fucked up my family is. I hate these meetings. My dad’s a perv. My mother’s a coward. My brother’s depressed. My sister’s finding it difficult to settle in with her foster family. I, apparently, express my frustration through ‘transference’. These meetings just shine a light on our darkness. We all know it’s there. We just don’t want to admit it, especially to ourselves. We’ll all be sat staring at each other, thinking about all the things we can’t say, thinking about the things we shouldn’t say and thinking about the things we don’t want to say. Then a man walks in. The man has glasses, a posh sweater vest and a notepad. He is a ‘family therapist’. He will then ask really intrusive questions from behind his notepad and we are expected to provide answers which promote ‘progressive discussion’. Sometimes the questions don’t make any sense, as if they were intended for another family – or every family. The man is vague, like the social worker, and will scribble and scribble on his notepad until I start arguing with my mother again. It’s the only way I can get some words from her. I call her a bitch, she says I am a horrible child, my brother cries a little, my social worker tries to intervene, the man nods his head and says ‘uh-huh, yes, interesting’, the door slams and then I’m out of there kicking chairs in the corridors.

All I know now is that I want Lucy back. I want my mother back. I want my dad to have not done those things. I want my life to have some sense of groundedness. Although, I don’t make it easy for my social worker, I know that our family needs her. Someone needs to help us restore some sanity to all of this. Speak about everything that is not being said and causing us all so much pain. I just hope that she can do it whilst we remain fixable. Whilst we still hold on to the idea that we want to all still be together.

Christ, I’ve rambled too much. I suppose that writing all this down has helped a little. I won’t tell my psychologist that though. I can’t stand the thought of her thinking that she has figured me out. I will, however, continue this diary. If I keep exploring myself, I never know what I might find – perhaps a decent human being.

Until next time,



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One response to “Interventions”

  1. Sundaram Chauhan says :

    No doubts it must have taken you great deal of courage to be able to open up so publicly. Your life sure appears messed up at present, however, you write really well. Hope you get what you wish from writing things out. All the best!

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