There’s a small remote controller under the desk in my office. All of the counselor offices have one. It looks like a garage door opener, and it’s held in place under the front lip of my desk by a Velcro strip. It’s a panic button. Our alarm system. Should a client become combative or threatening. Or if for any reason we need help or are in danger we’re to reach under the front of the desk and sound the alarm.
I’ve never actually had to use it. In fact I’ve rarely even given it much thought. But there was an afternoon not too long ago when I thought I might have to sound the alarm.
I was in my office catching up on some paperwork. The person working at the front desk called and asked if I had a minute to see a client who wasn’t doing well at the treatment program we run and needed to see a mental health counselor. I set aside my paperwork, and accepted the walk-in appointment.
The woman was in her early thirties, and had been detoxing from methamphetamine. The dark rings under her eyes; the drawn, tightened skin around her mouth; the multiple scabs and scars on her face, neck and arms all pointed to her drug use.
She came into the office wearing pajama pants and an over-sized sweatshirt. Her hair was greasy, or sweaty. She wore no make-up, and her face was pale. She followed me into the office and collapsed into the vacant chair looking at me nervously.
“I, uh…. I’m not doing very good. Uh…” she started to rub at her temples. And I wondered how many days, or hours, she’d been in treatment.
“I just, you know … I think I need somethin’. I think I might be dyin’ here. I’ve never felt like this before. My skin is crawling …” she rubbed her arms vigorously, as if trying to crush the bugs she could feel crawling on her.
I nodded, wondering how much of this was the physical detox process. Wondering how bad things were for her.
“I don’t think I can do this, you know? I have migraines, and PMS. I think I might have a kidney infection, too. And you know, the doctors wouldn’t renew my prescription for Prozac before I came in here. They said they wanted me off everything. I don’t know that that’s such a good idea, though. I don’t feel good. I think I need somethin’.”
Again, she rubbed hard at her temples, then briefly scrubbed her hands over her face before roughly pulling all her hair back tightly from her face. I asked how long she’d been in treatment. She said it had been a matter of days. Then she repeated that she thought she actually might be dying.
“I just don’t know how much of this is the drugs, and how much might be somethin’ else, you know?”
I said I understood, and that we should check with her physician.
That’s when she erupted. She pulled her knees up under her chin, wrapping her arms tightly around them, and howled.
“I have two kids. They don’t deserve this. They’re good kids. And they have a mother who’s a drug addict.”
She howled again. A real howl. Like what a wolf or coyote would do. Maybe what a wounded wolf or coyote would do.
“My boy sits at home under a blanket playing video games all day long. He has no friends. He doesn’t do anything. He just sits home under a blanket. You know, like he’s trying to shut out the world. My little girl, she’s real smart, you know? Last year, she bought Christmas cards with her own money, and sent them out to all our relatives saying that we hoped they had a good Christmas. She signed all our names. And paid for them with her own money ….. because …” she dropped her head and erupted in another painful howl.
It was obvious that she wasn’t okay. The howling was unusual. Her hands trembled and she clawed at them to hold them still. I was starting to get a little concerned, struggling to try to predict what she might do, if she was crossing the line between distraught and dangerous.
“Because,” she continued, “because … she didn’t want the world to think she had a dysfunctional family.” She broke into another round of sobs.
Her head was resting on her knees. Her sobs coming in full force. Loud, rhythmic weeping and moaning.
“Her mother’s a drug addict, and she doesn’t want the world to know. She’s 10 years old! Just 10 years old! Oh Jesus! Oh Jesus!”
At that she began pounding on her legs, slamming the heels of her hands into the sides of her thighs. She was sweating heavily now, beads of perspiration on her forehead and on her throat. Shaking almost convulsively, becoming more and more agitated.
And for the first time ever I actually glanced at the alarm button under my desk. I wasn’t threatened. But the woman’s level of agitation and desperation was becoming worrisome. And for that one instant I thought I just may need some help.
“I’ve got to do this!” she declared suddenly, mopping a sleeve across her face. “I’ve got to do this. I’m scared, you know? I hurt all over. My body’s a mess. My brain’s a mess, too. I’ve smoked too much Drano off of foil. My brain doesn’t work the way it should anymore. But I’ve got to do this. I gotta get off this stuff.”
I encouraged her. I offered support. Agreeing with her that she did need to beat this addiction. For herself, and for her kids.
She nodded, smiling nervously.
“Yeah,” she sniffled. “My kids need me. They need to know that they actually have a mom.”
She continued to cry quietly for a little while, and sniffled a few more times. The trembling settled down a bit. And eventually she uncurled, and slid her feet back down to the ground.
Then, with equal abruptness to how she had come in, she said, “Thanks for seeing me. I know you’re real busy. I just … I just didn’t know what else to do.”
I asked if she was okay for now, and she nodded. She thanked me again, smiling nervously. I said that it was no problem. And I reminded her that this was probably the worst the withdrawal would be. She nodded, stood up, and left my office.
When the door shut behind her I exhaled. Glad that I hadn’t sounded the alarm. Glad that I hadn’t needed to.
I looked at the alarm for a second. Thinking about how its presence here is for my protection. In case I am ever in jeopardy.
And I thought about the woman who had just left my office. The mom. I thought of her sobbing for the pain of her children. Howling over her own failures and shortcomings.
No, I hadn’t needed to sound the alarm this time. She had. Fearing for her safety, recognizing the danger she was in, she’d come in asking for help. Crying out for help. Howling in pain, she had come into the office that afternoon for one purpose. To sound the alarm.
penniesonmypath 