Just. Make. It. Stop.

I am going to start playing the lottery. This time, I mean it. The job that was once a blessing, is now a curse and I am, once again, drag assing around. So as not to bring about any sort of "help" from the Universe, let me just say right now...I am still thankful that I am working. But Lord have mercy, I am exhausted. And behind. And frustrated. And I still don't have a lunch partner. And, I don't like my clients. The list just goes on.

It has become apparent that I was hired to do 2 full time jobs in one full time role. I would love to think that the powers that be thought that I was so fabulous and capable that they hired me based on my juggling skills. I would love to believe that; however, I don't. I think they hired me based on the fact that they needed to fill both positions quick and I was qualified. I have been given an overstuffed binder that is falling apart and basically set loose on the needy citizens of West Tennessee to practice social work magic. I laugh at my early notion that they "got it". That they understood that the absolute worst thing a social worker could do for her client is to do it for them. Superficially, most people believe this. But when it comes down to it, most still subscribe to the belief that if the client isn't willing to do their part, it is perfectly okay to just pick up the slack. Which, of course, creates dependence. Soon, you begin to get calls from people because they can't seem to get themselves to the doctor's office. Or, they are out of milk. Or, heaven forbid, they can't buy notebook paper. How is this my problem? I believe in helping people dust themselves off, not washing them clean of any and all responsibility for themselves.

And the paperwork!!! My God. There are two types of social workers. Those that do, and those that write about doing. I do. I hate writing about what I do. I understand it is a necessary evil, but often I find myself writing the same thing on 3, 4, sometimes 5 documents; all for the sake of grant money. I will never be caught up with paperwork, it is a fact that I need to learn to deal with. I have three offices, in two counties and one in my car. Papers slung everywhere, forms half filled out, post it notes with scriblings like "Ms. X needs detergent!!!" stuck everywhere. It is never as simple as just getting some detergent to Ms. X. No ma'am. First, I have to fill out a form, justifying why Ms. X needs detergent. Then, I must fill out another form (all longhand) stating that I counseled Ms. X on detergent conservation. I must log Ms. X into a large book whose location tends to change weekly, documenting how much detergent I gave to Ms. X and the estimated value. I must call Ms. X to make sure she will be home to receive the delivery of the precious washing powders. Delivery is then made. But it isn't over there. Not by a long shot. Ms. X must sign a form stating that she received the detergent. Next, a longhand note is made detailing (all in 3rd person) exactly what transpired when I brought Ms. X the detergent. At the end of National Detergent Delivery Month, I must then compile a report and include Ms. X's receipt of the detergent so that, I suppose, it can go into some sort of national detergent database. But guess what? Now Ms. X knows that any time she runs out of detergent...she just makes a call and we do it all over again. Month after month. Times 15 clients. Would it not just be easier for Ms. X to haul her ass down to the Dollar G and purchase some Sun? No. You know why? Because Ms. X prefers Tide. And Tide is what she gets.

Sometimes, I miss the sterile viper pit of a hospital that I used to work in. I made very little difference there as well, but at least the paperwork was minimal and the patients wore gowns. Gowns that were laundered by someone else. With someone else's detergent. That I didn't have to purchase, deliver, or document.