I’ve been a social worker for many years and you don’t put in that kind of time without seeing a few things: unexpected moments of community, bodies, genuine concern for others, handguns, random acts of kindness, and swords, so many swords, but two years ago I came into a hard scene that occupies my head more than most, finding the remains of a tenant I worked closely with during a well check.

They had been dead for three days.

Their cheeks were the most brilliant blue.

I’d worked closely with them, trying to support them through the aftermath of an assault.

There was a bottle of Tylenol near them on the bed where they lay on their side.

The bottle was full. Things were missing from their apartment.

Later, it was determined to be a fentanyl overdose.

When I first walked into the unit and saw them, my mind froze.

I shouted “Fuck!”

I turned and put my hands on the kitchen sink, leaned over because I thought I might vomit.

Then I turned towards the door and told the property manager not to come inside. They nodded back at me, alarmed. I didn’t think they needed to see that color of blue that I see everywhere today.

These years later, I still question if there was more I could have done, but my therapist tells me that’s a selfish thought, a misguided attempt to own the scene and take some control that is not mine to have.

Fair.

But I’m still angry.

I know that this tenant had a history of abuse, substance use, but they also had a couple of kids and could completely change the tone of a room with their presence, all smiles and frenetic energy and laughter. I try to remember the laughter, but I mostly remember the blue. My current therapist and I speak of it regularly. Talk therapy, EMDR, processing, etc. This tenant continues to visit me on the regular and as I sit here, they visit again with their silent blue hello and I get that creeping dread feeling accompanied by quickening breaths. I don’t have an answer for how to cope with the aftermath of some work experiences. I’m glad to do the work I do, but there is a price. I’ve had struggles of my own to varying degrees, but I work to maintain an overall balance and I do feel privileged for many of the experiences I’ve had, both good and bad. I feel privileged to have shared or endured them both alone and with others.

But I’m still angry because like this post, sometimes I don’t see the point.

These are the bad days.

Have a nice day.