Whose Problem is it Anyway?

Anyone who works in social work is assigned to fix others’ problems.

Each day you go to work, and your caseload will likely involve a smorgasbord of people with problems. People who are violent and are victims of violence; People who are substance abusers, are homeless, have mental health issues, are poor, can’t find a job, hoard things, have phobias, sexual dysfunction, disabilities, the-dirty-little-secrets we all share as fallible human beings, and don’t manage to hide so well all of the time.

What’s their diagnosis? Why are they being referred? In a general sense, most questions translate into plain English as; What’s their problem?

Quite often, and isn’t it grand? We often associate these problems, such as substance abuse, hoarding, eating disorders to the wonderful world of television that we, as a society tend to worship. Except me of course. Oh yah, and you. You’re particularly wise to these things you incredibly intelligent, on the cutting edge of every cultural boon, sexy reader you.

We see fat tv people trying to learn to eat and exercise to get thin, we see tv drug addicts learning to live drug-free, we see tv hoarders cleaning up their homes, and it works almost every time. On those television shows. So that must be the way the world works right? People who fall off the narrow, steep, mountain path named by democratic vote, “THE NORM”, are really only clinging to the edge and need a hand to swing their leg back over the top and keep on truckin’ right? Thank you cable tv.

One of the important questions on an intake form in any social service agency is who made the referral. Was it a relative? Medical Professional? Social Worker? School principal? Neighbour? Whoever makes the referral is the one to whom the individual referred is compared (to the referring sources set of what is normal, and what has slipped over the edge). Go ahead, read that sentence again.

So whose problem is it? When does behaviour tip the scale? When it affects your ability to work, pay your bills, and maintain healthy relationships?

Well, I flunk at least one of those three indicators according to my married friends, and sometimes I actually don’t like having to pay my bills, so maybe I'm only around 50% there. Does that mean I need a relationship intervention? Does a romantic relationship specialist, social worker, psychologist need to see me on an ongoing basis until I’m married with a house, picket fence, well trained dog, and pie cooling on the window sill? Maybe. Or, (gasp-deeeeeep gasp), maybe I’m happy just as I am. Maybe my being single is really just an issue for dinner party hosts, wedding planners and compulsive busy-bodies who worry too much about why I feel safe travelling alone, and gawd forbid, eating all alone in a restaurant.

Is it my problem that the neighbour works a night shift? That her husband drinks so much that he passes out every night by eight o’clock? That her nine year old son doesn’t eat dinner because of it and doesn’t do his homework, or the laundry, or the dishes, or have friends over, or take a bath, or go out and play? Come on, is that really my problem? I mean I don't have time for that kid. I barely have time to do the dishes, go to the gym, look after my own kid, and sneak in a little luxury bubble bath.

What about the old man next door? Is it my problem he always smells like a public restroom in Paris? Is it my problem that his mail piles up at the door, or that he spends his days and nights and weekends, and holidays and birthdays alone? Is it my problem that his house is packed with newspapers and everything else under the sun, including his garbage and recycling, and dirty take-out containers, and he never, I mean never-ever-never takes anything to the garbage?

Where I was raised, none of the above two paragraphs would be considered my problem. None of it. Not unless they were related by blood , and the only problem would be if anyone I wasn’t related to found out that I was related to crazy people or drunks. Because, heaven forbid if that happened we’d be tarred with the same brush, and we’d collectively go to hell with holey socks in a hooker’s handbasket. Incidentally, do hooker's carry handbaskets, or just really big purses?

Now what about today in the city? Is it my problem, when I have to get out of the house at the crack of dawn to navigate rush hour traffic, and I come home in the same highway war zone, barely able to cook my own dinner, do the homework in this house, clean my own floors and bathroom, and raise my own child? It can’t possibly be my problem right? I mean, after I shut my door, the problem doesn’t exist. I just have to deal with my own little microcosm right here in the little space that I pay for.

Or? ... does the kid who belongs to the drinking father start drinking himself? Maybe smoking, finding a bit of dope here or there? Finding friends who like to do the same things, but treat him like dirt because he stinks and is dumb, and in a few years the kid discovers sex all on his own maybe some meth or crack, and manage to spread the gift of STD’s that keep on giving? Or, maybe just lose it because he's so disconnected, and manage to justify carrying a firearm, or, maybe even using it? I mean, the kid could possibly be wise and insightful about what a hell hole his parents have created for him, study like mad and stay straight so he can build his own life and get the hell out. He could, and if you look at statistics, it’s a statistically minimal possibility.

I mean, really, what do I care if my neighbour drinks underage, does every drug under the sun, wields a weapon and causes widespread disease. It doesn’t get in my door does it, or even make my lawn look less than luscious and green right? I mean it’s not like that stuff is linked to violence, crime or anything like that. It’s kinda like the Boogeyman – if you pull the cover over your head and hold it there long enough, all of those social problems just pass you by. Haha, sucker!!! You can’t get me Social Boogeyman!!!

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think that people need to smoke dope under cover of darkness in bomb shelters. I don’t think a drink or two (or even three) will land you in a burning rabbit hole bound for hell with pit stops for crack and pedophilia. Nor do I think a little community outreach and support would go amiss.

You know the old man who hoards stuff. Let him keep it, just let him keep the rodents, and the insects and the disease too. When you ultra blue conservatives figure out a way to do that, let me know. That stuff can’t come in after I’ve closed the front door on the world can it? I mean, really.