An Introduction

All people are a fascinating collection of stories.

This is the story of what happens when a young do-gooder with boundary issues of her own tries to save the world. In other words, it's about the 3 years (approximately) I spent working at a battered women's shelter fresh out of college.

When I was in high school I interviewed my French teacher and wrote a story for the school paper about her harrowing childhood in World War II France. Her family home was bombed, and she talked about how sometimes she would develop a bump under her skin from a long-buried piece of shrapnel rising to the surface. That is how I would describe my memories from the shelter. A name, a face, a story will pop into my head at odd times, and now I feel compelled to let them out.

Writing these stories is a ticklish business. First and foremost is the fact that the work I did was under a tight lid of confidentiality. If we met a former client on the street we generally didn't acknowledge knowing them or, if we did, not where we knew them from. I'm aware, however, that nearly a quarter of a century has passed. The agency I worked for no longer exists, the shelter has re-located and is under new management. I will never use actual names and will work to keep details vague.

Still, I think it is important that these stories be shared. It was a crash course in poverty, justice, ideals versus reality, and the best and worst that humanity has to offer.

It all started my senior year in college. Actually, it starts with the fact that I chose a psychology degree in the first place. Like many people who enter the field, it was about my needing to fix my own issues, something I couldn't have realized at the time. In a department that prided itself on psychology as hard science, I was what I actually heard one of my professors refer to (somewhat disparagingly) as a "do-gooder." It was not a happy fit. I struggled to pass my statistics and computer science prerequisites.

By senior year, however, I could finally take the psychology practicum, a chance to be exposed to actual work in the field. We were placed as "interns" with various agencies in the area. This completely overlooked the fact, though, that a bachelor's degree in psych doesn't qualify one to actually DO ANYTHING in the field. Many of my classmates ended up doing a lot of observing.

I, on the other hand, was eager to wade into the fray. For reasons I can't fully explain, I really wanted to get involved with crisis intervention. The stars aligned, the Fates decided, and I ended up being placed at Chrysalis, the area domestic violence shelter. Being relegated to the sidelines there was never really a problem.

I wound-up staying for 3 years. First as a student, then working from part-time to unofficial full-time, then about a year officially full-time. I feel like I read somewhere that about 3 years is the average life-span for a career in front-line social work. The cruel truth is that caring makes you a better worker, but it also causes you to burn out faster. I cared a lot and burnt to a crisp.

It is also VERY important to note that Chrysalis was in no way a typical shelter being run in a typical manner. It was a very idiosyncratic collection of people (by that I mean the director and fellow staff members) in its own peculiar place. I repeat - the agency and shelter I worked for no longer exist. My recollections should not be a reflection on shelters in general.

OK. Now that I've (hopefully) piqued your interest, I'm tired of writing for now. Please check back soon for some actual stories.