This is the second part of Brianna’s case. The first part is below! Enjoy
Like last week, beware adult language.
Brianna, as previously explained, had a temper. A very explosive one. As we developed a rapport, we worked on maintaining stability and housing. After a couple of weeks, we found an “efficiency”. Basically, she rented a room in a house where all the rooms were rented out. Each was rented individually, like an apartment. They shared everything, including the kitchen and bathroom.
Working with her had proven to be more difficult than I imagined. I had to simultaneously provide skills training and walk on eggshells. I had to learn her language and rhythm. Learn how to avoid triggering her when discussing matters which were difficult for her. Often, boiling points involved her not getting her way about something. Like buying beer when I helped her at the grocery store (it’s a big no-no).
She, as I found out, really enjoyed Four Locos. I found out in a barrage of anger and explosions lunged my way.
We were working at a local grocery store, on money management, and understanding appropriate prioritization of her money- she had moved in, and needed to stock up on foods. Walking through the aisles, I noticed her demeanor changing. She was trying to pretend everything was going like it was supposed to, but I could tell there was something in motion in her head. I didn’t say a word. We made our way to the checkout counter.
“Oh, I forgot something, let me run back real quick.” She walked away, to the back of the store. She returned, with various items piled in her arms. She paid for the first batch of groceries, and said, “Just take those out, since they’re paid for.”
I walked outside, waited by my car, cart full. I noticed she had the second order in one clanking paper bag.
“What did you forget?” (She’d forgotten her beer).
“Oh, just a couple of things.” She was avoiding eye contact at all costs. We unloaded the cart, she sat in the passenger seat, paper bag on her lap.
I didn’t want to do anything else at this point, it needed to be addressed, and I dreaded having to do it.
“I know you got beer.” She got defensive.
“It’s not beer. It’s Four Locos. It’s like a juice.” (It’s not a juice, kids)
“I know what a Four Loco is. You can’t have that in here. Either leave it, or you’ll have to find another ride. You know I can’t let you.” The tension in the car rising. It was palpable.
“What the fuck are you talking about? Ashley always let me do it!” She was facing me.
“Bri you have to either leave it, or stay here. I’m not changing my mind.”
“What the fuck, man. This is bullshit.”
“Look, I understand you’re an adult, and I’m not going to treat you like a kid. You just can’t have it.”
She was yelling now, pissed off. She opened the door and threw the bag out. Cans bouncing on the pavement. Rolling around. “This is fucking bullshit!”
The whole ride back consisted of me de-escalating her, and the gratuitous use of “Fuck” in some shape or form on her part.
We got back, I helped her unload the groceries. I turned to leave. She stopped me.
“Vic. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. I’ll see you next week.”