Social Worker with a 2' by 4' (eBook)

Chapter 1.
Debbie’s Story

When I first met Debbie, she was an 18-year-old girl, one of the youngest participants ever accepted in my Drug Court. Non-addicted teenagers are problematic. Add drugs to the equation, the Drug Court team had a real challenge. Soon after coming into the program, she decided to go out with friends the night before Thanksgiving. I sent her to jail after a positive test at the half- way house. Six years after her successful graduation she wrote the following letter to me.

November, 2014

Dear Hon. Charles Apotheker,

My name is Debbie. I am writing you after having spoken briefly with Patti on the phone the other day. I had called looking for Allison, who was my caseworker when I first started Drug Court. I wanted to express my gratitude to you and the entire Drug Court team for allowing me to participate in Drug Court in 2008–2009. It was a turning point for me, which has afforded me so many incredible opportunities so far. As I approach my anniversary, I wanted to take the time to write to you and tell you what Drug Court means/meant to me, what some of my journey has been like, and how deeply grateful I am for having been given another chance to have an incredible life.

I am not sure if you remember me. I know you have seen hundreds of people pass through your courtroom since I stood in front of you. I appeared in front of you a little over six years ago, at 18 years old, and pled into Drug Court. At the time, I may have been the youngest participant. I remember being scared of what would happen if I kept using and ending up in jail and other institutions, yet I was unsure if I could succeed at following the strict rules of Drug Court (or if I wanted to commit to doing so). I did know that I didn’t feel like being in jail anymore, though I still had a strong belief that I was somehow fundamentally different from most of the people I found myself sitting next to.

Despite my trepidation, heart pounding, I managed to quash the voice in my head that told me to run the other way, and I committed to beginning Drug Court. At the time, truthfully, the only way I managed to silence that inner voice, or “voice of addiction,” which constantly beckoned me toward shortcuts, was to promise myself that upon graduating Drug Court, I would smoke a fat blunt in the parking lot. This was an end goal I often thought I had to remind myself of during the beginning of the program. (By the time I graduated, the thought of this would seem so completely out of the question—no longer because of drug testing, but because I was so afraid of going back to the dark places addiction took me and losing everything I had.)

Jails and institutions, although certainly a part of my experience, were something my addiction told me I could avoid next time because I was smarter now. I had a friend in the rooms who presented me with a concept my inner addict voice struggled to argue with. He told me that I could try, and possibly succeed at using without dying or ending up in an institution. He asked me, though, if I was willing to skate by, merely existing in a world of active addiction, in which mediocrity would be then very best I could hope for. That was frightening to me. I think this scared me because it took the focus away from the threat of outside entities controlling my life, and forced me to look at whether I would choose to take responsibility for how my life was going to go. Mediocre, or excellent, my choice. And for a teenager who had already spent years institutionalized, the thought of taking charge of changing my life was pretty terrifying.

Before fully committing to being clean, I took one more shot at doing things my way, and ignored your warnings about the night before Thanksgiving being a big trigger. I went to a party with a friend, at first just to go because “I could handle it” and then just to drink—since that “wasn’t what I had a problem with, anyway.” When I was breathalyzed at the halfway house the next morning (Thanksgiving), I was told I had to move out. Sitting on the front steps, hysterically crying, I had a choice to either wait until the following week to appear before you, or run away. I chose to stay. The result was another trip to jail, awaiting a bed at rehab for the second time in four months.

Maybe, I thought, I’m more like these people than I realized.

In retrospect, I believe that what Drug Court provided for me was a mixture of the level of accountability and freedom I needed to get clean. Being clean while institutionalized, though still a choice, is not the same kind of minute-to-minute commitment that staying clean on the outside often is. I had always had trouble continuing my success once I was free. Having a caseworker to check in with, and report was a useful tool, especially after having been in places where I was accustomed to 24-hour supervision. Feeling that there were a team of people, and a courtroom full of others in recovery, who genuinely felt happy to hear my accomplishments was another important piece for me. Gradually earning more and more freedom was much better than the all or nothing reality I had lived in before.

I remember sitting in the courtroom and hearing you say countless times how important it was to have a support group. After relapsing once during Drug Court, I came to find out that a support group is one of the most crucial aspects of recovery. Though my recovery has been strongest when I have had a sponsor, a commitment at a meeting, connection to a Higher Power, and consistent meeting attendance, my experience has been that I find my way back to those things when I am well connected with a support group who knows when I am going astray. Having multiple people to rely on as resources who are willing to talk me down, or just listen to me vent, has been the most valuable tool in my recovery.

I no longer grapple with the strong pull I used to feel towards using. It sneaks in more subtly—like when I graduated from college a year and a half ago, the only way it seemed everyone was celebrating was to have a drink. And I felt left out. I’ve become more comfortable telling people I don’t drink. I say it with conviction, as though it is the simple and unquestionable fact that it is. I can think of only two occasions in nearly six years when I have been asked, “But why not?”

I currently have five years and 11 months clean (and every intention of celebrating six years at the end of November). I have grown into adulthood while in recovery and had my share of growing pains. Recovery and life have plenty of ups and downs. But there have been so many wonderful milestones along the way: I turned 21 clean, earned my Associates degree, transferred to a four-year school and earned my Bachelor’s in sociology, became reliable, acquired new friends, regained the trust of my family and friends, established my own home after college, held a job consistently and supported myself, discovered things I am passionate about, found a kind and loving partner, AND most importantly—I’ve had many of my family members and friends who had once shut me out of their lives come and stay in my home and see my life here. What a truly incredible gift it is that I have been given this second chance.

I currently work as a Youth and Family Caseworker for a non-profit organization. We are contracted with the Department of Social Services to work with families that have children who are at risk of being placed in foster care or residential treatment. We are pioneering a runaway and homeless youth program next year (of which I will be the sole and first caseworker). The reason I give you this context is that earlier today, I sat in a meeting with staff from various aspects of Family Treatment Court, and listened to them discuss the growing need for Drug Courts and Family Treatment Courts in our community. I looked around me, and thought about the irony of the fact that I was on the other side of the conversation years later, and fully comprehended the need for these programs. When they talked about clients having to call each morning to see if it was their “color,” and the other workers struggled to understand what that meant, I got it and smiled to myself.

I thought of how truly blessed I am that things have worked out the way they have that I can come to understand the experiences of my clients better because of my own trials and tribulations. Crime, addiction, recovery, and deviance are not just two-dimensional stories in a textbook for me. They are real, lived experiences. I think sometimes when I look at the kids I work with, they can feel my belief in their ability to turn things around. I can give them this because that was what you gave me.

I do not believe that of my own accord, I would have woken up soon enough to have prevented a permanent mistake in my life that would have made these dreams impossible for me. I am 100 per cent certain that I would have, at the very best, skated by under the radar, alone, scared, and addicted, and at worst, not lived to know how remarkable life clean really is. I am so profoundly grateful for Drug Court, and for the people who are passionate about creating these programs that successfully reintegrate recovering addicts into the community. The stigma around addiction too often perpetuates it.

From the bottom of my heart, I want to thank you for the work you do, and the second chance you gave me. I want you to know that it not only made the difference in my own life, but...