The Anonymous Support Worker
Do no harm.
Practice Compassion
Show empathy
She sat in her car in the parking lot a few blocks down from the organization she worked for. She couldnt bring herself to turn on the engine; she was just frozen there staring at the steering wheel. It was 1030pm on vancouvers DTES. She had just gotten off a 12-hour shift cause someone didn’t show up. She’d been at this job for 7 months now, she loved her job, but since she started, she watched a dozen or more employees come and go.
“It isn’t for the weak of heart,” her manager would say.
It sure wasn’t
Tonight she had to Narcan someone who was overdosing and didnt make it. She watched the body taken away by the paramedics, on a stretcher, intp the ambulance, forever out of sight. This was nothing new. This happened more often than she would care to admit. Death, overdose, depersation. The community here was home to a large population of active drug users and so with that came crime, violence, vulnerability, survival, saddness, fear.
7 months ago she had just finished her practicum for a social work degree and was so eager and excited to put it to use. Turns out social work degrees were a dime a dozen ‘round here. In fact, you couldnt even become a support worker in some places without a degree.
But, here she was with one. And with it… an advantage. She had education and insight to the underserved population. She understood burn out, vicarious trauma and the importance of self care. She felt equipt to handle a job like this and understood why so many came and went. It was like throwing people into battle without weapons.
Tonight though, it was like something broke inside of her. She had been in her office, in a building right on the strip. A stones throw from the busiest intersection of the infamous crossroads.. It was welfare wednesday and things were always chaotic on this day. It was her least favorite day of the month. At about 8pm a young girl flew through the door into the building, screaming, crying, frantic. “PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME IVE JUST BEEN RAPED”. That sentence kept replaying in her mind over and over. The face of the girl was beat up, dirty and bloody but not enough to hide the innocence this girl had.
Being the only female support worker on tonight, it immediately became clear that she was to step in and assist this poor girl.
In a back room, away from the public, away from traffic, away from stares, her and the girl sat while she help her wipe the dirt and blood off her face. “We have someone calling the police, ok? You’re going to be ok.”
“No! No, please don’t call the police.” All of a sudden, she noticed that this girl had an accent. It sounded Russian.
“We have to, it’s our policy. Do you have warrants? Are you worried about being arrested?” She just realized she didn’t ask her age. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” the girl replies.
As she sat in her car in the parking lot, she could feel big wet tears rolling down her face.
“Where are you from?” She was careful not to show any reaction to learning her age. A child, she thought. Images of her 13-year-old sister swept across her mind. Her sister, in pigtails and pink, laughing and running around. Her whole body winced at the thought of her sister in that girl’s place.
She stepped back as paramedics and a cop stormed into the room and surrounded the girl.
“What is your name? Do you know where you are? Have you taken anything tonight?”
She couldn’t hear the girls’ responses as they assessed her before toting her out of the room and into the ambulance waiting outside.
She stode beside the cop, who was writing on his notepad. “so fucked up” he murmured.
“Sorry?” She said
“That girl, she’s been sex trafficked. They get the girls hooked on drugs, and then they lock them in hotel rooms and sell them to men." he paused, “She's not the first and won’t be the last.”
“How do you know?” She spuddered, almost unable to speak.
“Cause we see it all the time. The young ones. They don’t just end up down here by coincidence.”
A cold shiver ran through her body. She was back in her car. She couldn’t stop thinking about her own life at 14. How safe and carefree it was. How innocent and naive she was able to be.
She sat there and cried.
Cried loudly and messily. She screamed and hit the steering wheel. Her body felt like it was being closed in on. She couldn’t breathe. She didn’t know how long she sat there, but she sat there til the pain in her chest stopped. Til the images of children addicted to drugs stopped. Til the memory of that girl’s pinned, bloodshot eyes, left.
And then she turned the keys in her ignition and started her car. The music she had been listening to on the way to work started up - something boppy.
She turned it off and drove home in silence. She had to come back for her shift in the morning.
