[xx-16}

This is DCS wanting me to condense a 220 page book into ~1500 words of a reflection piece. This is part of my homework in order to become a forensic interviewer.

Section 1:

In reading the history of child welfare in “Child Welfare Values,” it is not immediately obvious how this would impact my approach to forensic interviewing. The sins or ignorance of the past is either repeated, or an attempt is made to correct practice after more is learned about developmental needs and the horror stories have amassed.

It is mildly interesting to know that it was back in the thirteenth century we saw the evolving of case law to start the intervention of overlords, or perhaps stated today as “Big Government,” the authority to intervene on behalf of children. In the course of my work as an assessor, I am often scolded by parents about “their rights” as it pertains to their children. They, seemingly, are unaware of the precedents established that distinguish “contingent” verses “absolute” rights.

What gives me pause most often is the presumption on behalf of the authors of the social worker’s inherent understanding and acceptance of the premise that they can always act within the best interest of the child. This presumption so jarring after citing the inability of humanity to center on a perpetually true or agreed upon set of moral values. In perhaps a fit of blind irony, it goes on to attempt to prescribe normative practice, and continues to rely on the safe vagaries of broad language. For example, the system “must protect children,” “must be culturally competent,” and children should be placed in the “least restrictive, most home-like environment.”

Practically, protecting children is as varied as each child and their social or physical environment. It is a problem that cannot be nailed down, and infinitely begs to be refuted. We can and should try to protect children, but I suspect the insisted imperative emboldens a kind of naivety to regard one’s own opinion or directive offered in service to the presumption as paramount. In establishing rapport and goals, it would help to define what that protection looks like for them, so they can understand what it is they are a part of.

To be “culturally competent” is nearly impossible as well. We acknowledge we have not grown up in someone else’s home. The culture we are born into changes quickly, and we may no longer feel like we have a grasp of it. We have incredibly misunderstood and ineffective means by which to address biases and internalized fears regarding the out-group. For every one person to acknowledge their ignorance and display a willingness to change, you have the vast majority working with people in ways that make sense to them, and if that results in disproportionate statistical aberrations, none the wiser are the families being impacted until the discrepancy makes the news. At least when it comes to interviewing, one might be able to probe the child’s perspective of what is normal for them.

Finally, the “least restrictive” environment that is “most home like” is an explicitly practical question that almost never gets achieved. We certify, or allow other agencies to certify, wholly inadequate foster homes. That “foster care drift” was as bad a problem 30 or more years ago as it is today is an abdication of duty. Maybe we need an entirely different take on where kids should be going when they get removed, and maybe if we are not prepared to address the larger holistic poverty and mental health needs, we need to act more as managers than broadly caricatured social workers. As such, managing expectations might illicit better responses from kids not being led to believe the picture is nicer than it is.

Section 2:

A comprehensive list of physical and behavioral indicators can aid in identifying injuries and shaping questions for children. In interviewing, I would take pains to include informed, not motivated, questions related to the suspected trauma. The hardest part it seems in being an interviewer will be to not take the generalized knowledge or observed tendencies, and read them into every interaction or overplay the explanatory power. The further I read into the section of the behaviors of children who are neglected, I recognize from my own childhood behavior, and can still feel the impact of in my adult life. To the degree it is related to “neglect,” per se, or personality traits that accompany many other facets of my behavior is not precisely clear even to me. Finding ways to allow the conversation to be enabling the child to explain and understand the situation for themselves seems key, as we literally already have the story written for them on how we suspect or would like to believe their situation is operating.

Despite tools such as the risk assessment, people are dynamic. The operative word in any explanation or scenario presented is “may.” Even with the presence of several indicators of abuse or neglect, the child may not view their experience as such. Children might not remember or be able to define what has happened to them, and use it to protect themselves from tarnishing the image they have of their parents. It becomes incumbent upon the interviewer to not just listen carefully to how the child describes their experience, but to probe the parents. Keeping in mind that trauma can go back through generations, it can lend itself to a better case plan and setting of goals to know if the current situation was brought on by an acutely stressful event, or a series of negligent learned behaviors.

It will always be important to keep in mind that just because a child may have experienced neglect or abuse, it does not mean it was with the deliberate maliciousness of the parent. Whether it be developmental disabilities or the consequences of poor information or stress, the goal is to figure out the underlying truth to the situation, not impede or unduly malign the process that could lead to rehabilitation. The working assumption is that families are best together and need to be supported with more or less intensive services. Identifying supports and character traits of different family members during an interview could lend itself to preservation or the formulation of a healthier environment.

Section 3:

An ongoing, and telling, experience from reading this book is noticing when it explicitly states the error we continue to make as an organization. New workers are routinely assigned to sex abuse allegations, and it is not always clear they have the knowledge on how to approach the situation or interview appropriately. Even relatively seasoned case managers can find themselves at the mercy or whim of their supervisor on what or whether to speak to a child about, particularly when that child’s parent will not allow them to be forensically interviewed. In my own work, I have immediately paused and probed for ways to address the allegations so as not to impede progress on the investigation later. That the process to become forensically interview certified, or even take the classes, is so diffuse seems to lend itself as to why these errors perpetuate.

The hallmark example of the ambiguity embedded in humanity is illustrated by the authors. They state that many children exhibit emotional and behavioral indicators from sexual abuse, and in the next line, state they also exhibit many of those indicators without sexual abuse, neither the absence or presence can be relied upon to determine definitively one way or another. What we do, and this is a daily occurrence, is allow our faulty inductive biases to dictate how far we are going to pursue a case. We have literally created case managers who create cases in service to their aggressive bias feeding. How would we address this more appropriately? Perhaps in bypassing the confirmation trap by being proactive and rehearsed in our skepticism we could allow the infinite sea of gray as it pertains to human behavior to coalesce around tendencies which beget safer environments. We pillory clients for their “thinking errors.”

A section on guilt makes me think of court. Judges want you to have remorse and can lighten sentences when they believe you. Here, we are told guilt is not enough to control or prevent re-offending. What comes after and how do you measure the potential? Surely society does not colloquially consider the child molester ever capable of rehabilitation, and then maybe this is why the section is so short.

The authors tell us about the factors that might help mitigate the fallout of sexual abuse. Being positive and supported by caregivers and receiving therapeutic or medical help at the time of the abuse or disclosure are direct tangible steps. Indiana seems in crisis to find therapists on it’s best day, leave aside ones who can navigate sexual abuse. “CPS” or “DCS” have such dramatic and damming connotation in the minds of the population that the idea we might be supportive or positive is immediately squashed. That we react, often chaotically, all but assures we will never build the kind of supportive or therapeutic culture that intelligently deals with these issues. That we do not believe we should even try, or prepare those on the front line in a timely and deliberate manner, would be an unforgivable sin were it not so intimately human.

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[832] Pooled

I hate getting sick. It’s something that’s
both inevitable, and for me, seemingly intolerable. It’s one thing to
feel weak or helpless, and another to be thrust into a pool that drowns
you in thoughts and feelings about how weak and helpless you are. It’s
realizing how little certain thoughts matter to me or how willing I am
to start negotiating the terms of my surrender. Something like a sore
throat is the nagging cat scratching at every swallow, erasing the
pleasure of taste. A head pounding says sit, stand, or lay down, it’s no
matter it will pull on the muscles around your brain and eyes until you
can’t see or think.

In truth, it’s hard for me to piece together
what to make of my “thoughts” when I’m severely ill. It’s one long
dream-like state of delirious pain, reacting to the chills or sweating
per my body aches and heaves. I really wanted help. At bottom, just
someone to like bear witness that I wasn’t over or under reacting to
what was happening. You don’t really know how bad you have it, and
sometimes until it’s too late to do anything. Every scowl and laughable
question about, “Who dies from the flu?” becomes less funny. Not that I
have more evidence than not to suggest I was about to die, but the
question rings louder the more isolated and without the necessary
resources you are.

Sickness is memorable for
me. I was thinking about what makes something memorable, and the
severity of the change in my disposition certainly counts. I know the
“differentness” of not eating for several days at a time. I know how
foreign it feels to not be able to put two thoughts together for longer
than snapshots of time. I know how empty and hopeless and desperate I am
to just black out until it’s all over. The physical nature of it sucks
enough, but the mental is what elevates it to the next level. Who am I
when nothing matters but the writhing and rocking of my legs or emptying
my body of every last drop of bile? Where do you want to go but down
when you can’t see or hold yourself up straight?

And then how do
we bother to understand or share sickness? In truth, I don’t get sick
often beyond annoying colds or tension headaches. The big ones stand out
for their ability to completely incapacitate save a fledgling ability
to drag myself to the bathroom. Our first instinct is to offer “help”
and also simultaneously be a little suspicious, no? How sick is sick?
Too sick to work? How do you have to sell and explain yourself so
you’re not punished on top of being sick for not living up to your
responsibilities? How desperate and persuasive do you have to be to be
accepted back into the ranks after being such a burden to your cohort or
family? I think this is a fairly unique American instinct.

In
any event, even while I consider myself on a path to be able to squirrel
away the resources to be able to account for my inevitable sickness,
universal healthcare or not, there’s still all the time in between.
There’s still the injuries I’m begging for and car accidents don’t stop
just because you had one recently. The same afternoon I got a hole dug
for a pool, I went from perfectly healthy, to exploding in a few hours.
Which aspect of my day will feel the most memorable? The excitement at
the prospect of a future swim spot, or the drama and pain? I think
they’ll be about equal. I think they’ll be equal because of the irony
underlying how life works. You have to work and affirm and overcome to
match the default pain and suffering that comes with existing at all.
That’s what makes it bearable and makes you want to keep living when
you’ve lost all direction and hope.

When I started to feel like
my shit was coming back together, figuratively and literally, I wanted
to get the laundry done, get my car dropped off to be worked on, and
compile the medicine I’d hopefully have on hand in case the next
disaster strikes. Whatever hell you’re experiencing doesn’t have to be
the end of the story or definitive in any way beyond how it’s made you
better prepared or appreciative of the health or security you’re
currently enjoying. For as often as life seems it’s trying to humble me
lately, I keep insisting I couldn’t really be sitting any prettier than
if I were able to layabout and arbitrarily invest unlimited time and
money.

I guess there’s also the sense that say I did randomly
die, it would have been on the day I moved forward with another thing I
said I wanted to do, have a pool, and I’ll be dammed if there isn’t a
gaping hole in the ground not 30 feet from me. I need shows of good
faith from myself as much or moreso than I do from others. You can’t say
I’m not trying, even if it looks less prepared or pretty than you
imagine the process should take. If all I know how to do is move in the
world one expenditure at a time (given the frivolity of the hearts and
minds approach), well, feel free to stop in and stare at the latest
attraction.

I still don’t feel 100%. I don’t feel “bad,” but I
feel like modest effort beyond basic ambling from one place to the next
is going to provoke the kind of huffing carrying my laundry yesterday
did. My mouth hasn’t returned to normal; it’s got that dry opaque
“medicine feel” like it’s been hollowed out and numb waiting for
permission to be a thing my brain can ignore until it’s been bitten. My
day is flirting with feeling like a “waste,” which again testifies to
how suspiciously I/we might think about recuperating and rest. I’m
hoping any remote insight or subconscious shift that might’ve taken
place manifests over the next few weeks. It was literally impossible to
string together thoughts that weren’t basic survival/cleanliness
instincts, but I distinctly remember how little a shit I gave about
topics that did pass through, if not what those topics were explicitly.

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[823] Crunchy Boi

Maybe I want to die.

I was in a car wreck tonight. According to
the woman who I was involved in it with, I was coming around a corner
fast. According to me, she was in the middle of the road. It was dark
and it just rained. Who wins?

I’m not even tempted to admit
fault. My instinct is marred by experience, and I work for the State. If
what you say is 10% or 5% true, it’s used to infer 100%. I lost a wheel
to my car. She didn’t have insurance. Does it mean anything? I don’t
think so. It’s another bill. It’s not even a “lesson.” We both probably
already knew dark corners in the rain at the speed limit or otherwise
can prove perilous. A deer in the day time that recently nicked my side
mirror can attest to that.

I can’t help but to think the worst. I
feel like I’m perpetually daring life to get harder than it needs to be
– to show its nasty face and stop pretending. I can’t help but to
believe that just as I “escape debt,” I find myself with a totaled car.
It’s like a cliché television episode. I can’t help but to think that
for every time I make a joke about dying on the highway, your god is up
there saying, “I’ll show you, you son of a bitch.” I feel like my task,
having come into focus, to pay down or trade down for a car without debt
has been “solved” in the most ridiculous and not-appropriate way
depending on how the insurance plays out.

The major takeaway,
mind you, is how I feel like I’m watching. I don’t mean in some kind of
traumatized or processing shock kind of way. I feel like I’m sort of
carrying on and extremely calm when “real” happens. I’ll find myself in a
panic politely contemplating the direction of my life on a lunch break
or pop a blood pressure machine when I feel on the verge of things being
“too easy” in the money-making from drug studies. While I’m sliding
after colliding down a country road? I feel, “of course.”

I’m
always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I want to get the tragedy
over with. I want to crack the joke, bust out the broom, and have the
money stock-piled waiting to pay for the series of miscalculations and
misdeeds. I fundamentally don’t believe there’s a reason or plan you
don’t create for yourself. The lady in the accident had Christian music
blasting and commented, “It all happens for a reason, I can’t see what
it is right now, but you gotta believe that.” I told her that I tag that
sentiment with, “It doesn’t mean it’s a good reason.”

I feel
stuck. I feel like there’s almost too many things to say, and absolutely
nothing. Big and little disasters happen all the time, and they’re
indifferent. That’s the point. I suppose I’ve been living amidst a
series of small disasters that are totally fixable with a little
forethought, responsibility, and accountability, and they don’t get
fixed. Why should I believe those “virtues” would save me for the “big”
things? Why should I think, whether it’s a car wreck or a conversation,
anyone is going to learn or get the clue that life really is short and
you should aspire to more than the piddling excuse we hold up for each
other on the daily?

I don’t matter but for the smallest of
individuated circumstances. Car crashes put us in our place. A brief
error or oversight erases your chance to do any more good or bad, and it
doesn’t even have to be your own. So drink and be merry? Use every tool
you have to reach every end? Live in spite of the indifference by
caring so gosh golly hard others feel inspired by you?

Another
perverse angle I entertain is that I’ve self-sabotaged yet again. Get
out of debt? No no, you can’t handle the freedom, let’s tack on $1000
deductible and keep you safe another two weeks. Part of me thinks the
only way I feel I can “deserve” my station in life is if I get there
through every possible kind of fuck up and strife so that I’m not
tempted to revel in it too sweetly. How unbelievably fucked would that
be if this were true? What if there was nothing that could be done to
stop it?

Let’s talk about the irony of maybe wanting to die. If I
wanted it sincerely enough, I couldn’t just get a gun and blow my head
off. I couldn’t even rely on our broadly safe cars and folly of drivers.
I’d have to find a way to cut myself ten thousand times in physical and
psychological ways. I’d have to feel like I earned my death as much as
I’ve had to crawl and beg through the pain and frustration to get where I
have so far. Maybe there’s a war going on inside for how vicious each
side of my life and death impulse will behave.

I don’t want anyone to be scared, because I’m not. I am, and forever will, remain confused though.

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