It's been a while...
As I start writing this, I am recovering my sense of balance s l o w l y. There was a brown lump in close proximity to a long brown smear on the carpet between Service_user's room and the bathroom. As I observe I continue, into the bathroom to have my shower, dress, clean my teeth...keep my self together.
I go down to the kitchen and describe my observation and ask, does he know how or why or what?
He does not.
I ask him to check his room, is there any more?
No
I say 'oh well, perhaps it was you, or my husband, or a cat, or a dog, or Satan himself...I will clear it up and no, I don't want to know if it is what it looks like, so no need to smell it...'
He offers to clean it.
I say no...I need to do this for my own peace of mind. Thinking to myself, well, I've got nothing else to do.'
Since THE BAD THING happened (3rd May) I am in bits. THE BAD THING was nothing to do with Service-user, it was everything to do with my sense of identity and security, my role, my self-value especially as it took down my progression (I am in no fit state for placements) and I literally feel as if I've got nothing left. Who or what I am has gone. She died holding a phone hearing it go to voice-mail. Hearing the words 'I can't just drop everything...'
As I scrub the carpet - and I still put my trust in citric acid as the panacea, cure all to prevent bodily fluid carpet stink - all I can think of is how bad it has been before, flash-backs of shit smeared walls as I'm standing where I now scrub, talking to a policeman as service-user is being taken away for his first night in the cell... THE BAD THING has destroyed me, so I cry and carry on and go downstairs make myself porridge.
Service-user is distressed to see me cry. I tell him it is flashback, I just need to look after myself. I will be OK.
I go down to the kitchen and describe my observation and ask, does he know how or why or what?
He does not.
I ask him to check his room, is there any more?
No
I say 'oh well, perhaps it was you, or my husband, or a cat, or a dog, or Satan himself...I will clear it up and no, I don't want to know if it is what it looks like, so no need to smell it...'
He offers to clean it.
I say no...I need to do this for my own peace of mind. Thinking to myself, well, I've got nothing else to do.'
Since THE BAD THING happened (3rd May) I am in bits. THE BAD THING was nothing to do with Service-user, it was everything to do with my sense of identity and security, my role, my self-value especially as it took down my progression (I am in no fit state for placements) and I literally feel as if I've got nothing left. Who or what I am has gone. She died holding a phone hearing it go to voice-mail. Hearing the words 'I can't just drop everything...'
As I scrub the carpet - and I still put my trust in citric acid as the panacea, cure all to prevent bodily fluid carpet stink - all I can think of is how bad it has been before, flash-backs of shit smeared walls as I'm standing where I now scrub, talking to a policeman as service-user is being taken away for his first night in the cell... THE BAD THING has destroyed me, so I cry and carry on and go downstairs make myself porridge.
Service-user is distressed to see me cry. I tell him it is flashback, I just need to look after myself. I will be OK.
[The 'bad thing' was my husband's choice to stay at school after work - he is a teacher - with a TA who he had fancied since 2015, and have sex]
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