Last week’s post, as always, is below! NSFW language.
Brianna continued with her mood cycles. She is Bipolar, and this is normal. Up and down, extreme ends of each. However, with her Intermittent Explosive Disorder (IED, like the bomb, a perfect acronym), the anger was often difficult to deal with, and intimidating (Yeah yeah, I’m man enough to admit it). This led to frequent conflicts; sometimes escalating to physical altercations.
There are things a person in this field can prepare for, there are some that require the experience itself as training.
I’d received multiple calls over the weekend from her and a number I didn’t recognize. We don’t answer these calls. The clients understand there are boundaries, and, in the event of any emergency, they have information on 911 and other mental health response services. I’d made it a point to see her in the mornings, first thing. It helped with maintaining our relationship at it was. She complained about being seen at 8:30AM. She had “shit” she did at night. But, she always complied. As scheduled, I went to her efficiency early Monday morning.
When I arrived, I immediately noticed there were multiple beer bottles shattered around the yard (not Four Locos). Also, clothes, a broken dining room chair, a broken screen door. These were strewn. I walked up to the porch and knocked.
The first rule of Fight Club is you do not talk about Fight Club- unless you’re ethically obligated to.
Brianna answered the door. She had a black eye. Immediately, I inquired.
“Man, me and this bitch got into it. We got in a fight. Best believe I whooped that bitch’s ass, though!”
I was confused by the statement itself, I had gotten used to her way of communicating. “Who? What happened?”
“My girlfriend came by.” (Right? I didn’t know either)
“And?” She said her girlfriend came by as if it explained everything.
“We got drunk, and she said something about one of my sugar daddies…shit got crazy.”
I was flabbergasted, “What do you mean ‘shit got crazy’? It looks like you tore down half the house.” In this field, it is frequent that the client is infuriating. Their decision making is usually impaired, and our job requires us to help them understand consequences and forethought. I was whoosah-ing internally.
“Did anyone call the police?”
“No… it’s cool though. It didn’t last too long, and we worked things out…we made up.”
“She’s upstairs getting ready…can she come to the store too?”
“Yeah, Vic, she’s got somethings she’s gotta get for the efficiency. That bitch living here, she better pay for some groceries.”
“Brianna, you know we have to talk about this…” I knew I hadn’t had enough coffee to deal with this.
She whispered, “I know Vic, but here she comes, we’ll talk about it later.”
As her girlfriend approached my car, I just kept looking at the damage they did to the house. Accepting that handing out beatings were a normal course of action for these women, I thought, Okay, maybe later is best.
It pains me to have to write this but it’s necessary in these I know some may find some reason to use this as a justification for thinking I find domestic violence funny. I don’t. It was addressed, as expected. Please calm your triggered self. Thanks for reading!