On the morning I was to be in court to extend the protective order I also had to be in orientation to learn what I was to do in return for receiving state assistance.  Somewhere I had put the notion in my mind that the orientation was going to be quick, lasting only an hour and a half.

A social worker announced the room was open for all orientation attendees.  I sat down in a grungy room, finding myself among several other women who were sailing similar vessels, though I'm sure some were crossing stormier seas.  One had brought her young child.  We were told not to bring our children, which is why the state was paying for our daycare.

"Ms. Alexandria gonna throw a fit when she see you brought that child in here," stated one of my classmates.

The woman with the child had a masculine jaw line.  She wore no makeup, her eyebrows could have used a good manicure and her sandy hair draped the middle of her back.  She reminded me of a guy I once dated.

As she shuffled her child and her belongings around the seat in front of her she replied, "Well, she's going to have to accept it because I'm homeless and I ain't got no where else to take her."

Turns out she was over-confident. Ms. Alexandria threw that fit and made her leave, but not before having to provide her with bus passes so she could get back to the Salvation Army shelter where she was staying.

Once homeless was taken care of, Ms. Alexandria started handing out sheets we were going to review during the course.   We were already a quarter into the hour and she mentioned something about when we break for lunch.  My court appointment was just an hour away.  Lunch was three hours away.  I felt guilty as I explained my predicament.  With much annoyance from our leader I was dismissed as well.

I wasn't prepared for the court hearing because I'd never been through a protective order process and I can't afford an attorney.  I was winging it.  The only person who had even slightly prepared me was my counselor who felt it was best that I continue with the order until the criminal investigation was over.  Then we also discussed what might get us to supervised visitation once the investigation was over.  She was a good source of information that I desperately needed.

My counselor and I agreed I would return in a month.  I thought I was doing well and remaining strong.  Perhaps she agreed.  I'm not sure.

The judge was the same judge that had granted me the first protective order and she didn't hesitate to extend it another 90 days for me and the children due to the criminal investigation that was ongoing.  He was there and she asked him if he understood.  His voice quivered when he answered, "Yes."  That was the only word I heard from him that day, though I could tell he wanted to say more when I saw him outside the courthouse prior to the hearing.  He saw me first.  I looked up and he was looking at me, his face crumpled in what I guess was supposed to be emotional pain.

I've stayed busy, trying not to focus on the investigation.  The state has kept me busy, too, requiring me to record the hours I spend job hunting and provide proof of employers I am contacting.  This past week I made up that day in orientation, followed by a day of test taking to assess my skill levels and job placement probability.

Homeless had also returned for orientation and testing.  I didn't speak to her that first day, but on test day she made sure our paths crossed a bit closer when we were dismissed for a half hour lunch.  I had brought my lunch.  I went to my car to listen to the radio while I enjoyed my salad, cottage cheese and yogurt.  I was just opening my cooler when I was interrupted by rapping on the passenger side window.  I looked up and it was homeless.  I rolled down the window.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked.  I think my surprise was apparent and perhaps my jaw had dropped because before I could answer she asked again: "Can I join you?  It's cold out here!"

"Uh, sure," I answered and unlocked the door for her.  As she settled in she was holding a pack of cigarettes.  I could see from the placement of her fingers one was eager to be removed from the pack.

"Do you mind?" she asked.

"Well, I have the babies' car seats in here and I don't want them smelling like smoke."

"I understand.  I have babies, too."  She let the window down all the way and stuck her head and half her torso out it.  "What if I smoke like this?"

The desperation of a smoker is a a powerful thing.  "That's fine," I gave.

We spent that half hour discussing her accommodations at the shelter.  She complained of having to rise at 5 am and being rushed out for the day.  Then if she didn't return by 7:30 pm she would be locked out for the night.  I explained to her that if it was like a Holiday Inn people wouldn't have a reason to get back on their feet and she was lucky to have what she did.  She and her family did, after all, have their own private room.  She conceded that I was right.

I found her situation fascinating.  I was tempted to ask if I could come see it, but I didn't want a new friend.  The last thing I needed was someone needy needing me.  We would both sink.

The last time I saw her was the next day at our drug-screening. A couple of the girls who had been in orientation and testing were also there, along with a young pregnant woman I had never seen before.  She was beautiful because of her youth, which granted her smooth dark skin and a taut physique.  She was majestic in how she sat, her hoodie pulled to the top of her head, the rest hugging her small growing belly with her arms folded across and her back straight.

While we waited for the screening she spoke softly about the two cousins she'd lost in the last year--the first shot by a policeman who mistakenly thought he was pulling a gun, and the second whose body was found decaying in a wooded area, the exact location she didn't know, but she was attending the funeral the following day.

What different worlds we all lived in.

If we passed the pre-screening we wouldn't have to take a pee test.  The pre-screening was a two-sided sheet of paper.  The front side seemed to be a mental evaluation and the back side consisted of a billion yes or no questions, basically asking the same four questions in different ways.

One of the questions asked if I often see images from a traumatic event in my life.  I answered no.  I lied, but only because I was in denial.  I told myself I was not traumatized.

I was the only one of us who passed the pre-screen.  I felt guilty as I said farewell to homeless and the others--guilty because perhaps my disastrous life couldn't even touch their experiences.  I didn't want to dwell on what could have been worse.

Since then, I have realized that I have been suffering emotionally during the times that I am alone, like on the drive downtown in search of employment after dropping the babies at daycare.  I'm looking at the road in front of me, but I see him, knelt down in front of the bathroom door.  He's pathetic--like a drug addict--he has no self control.  He looks up at me, surprised I'm suddenly there.  The memory is so real and the tears just burst.  And I hate him with everything in me because he's so weak and disgusting and he did this to our family.

There are no nice words to describe him anymore, but I'll refrain from using the really bad ones.

Then this morning I'm alone and I see him again.  And again.  And the disgust and anxiety overtake me.  I'm alone and I question who I was living with.  I was always alone.  Perhaps I am traumatized.  I want to talk to my counselor, but the appointment is still two and a half weeks away.

As I write this I see him and my eyes have become wet.

My world isn't that much different from those other needy women I met last week.  Isn't that why our paths have crossed?  We have no choice but to keep sailing and pray we find calmer water ahead.  And a nicer vessel.

I recently removed someone from my Facebook friends list because he made a racist remark.  I don't draw anymore lines to be crossed for racists.  If you're racist you're out of my circle.

But what led to that remark was a photo he posted of his shopping cart while he was in line at the supermarket.  I commented that I also liked Grape Nuts.  What I didn't realize until some comments following mine was that his photo was not meant to capture what was in his cart, but what he assumed about the people in line ahead of him.

In the photo caption he remarked he was glad he worked and was able to pay for his own food.  The comments conversation evolved into a discussion about the people ahead of him, who he and the other commentors assumed were purchasing their food through welfare.  I argued with him that sometimes people find themselves in situations they aren't prepared to be in, and he commented that if he had to shovel shit at the kennel he would because he was better than any person that took government handouts.

Okay.  He is entitled to that opinion.  He and I obviously don't see eye to eye.  I didn't like his stance on the subject, but I can't agree with everyone, and I usually agree with very few in this state.  Then he likened what he saw to an episode of Good Times and that's when I unchecked the "friends" box.

Well, I'm glad he is no longer a Facebook friend, or real friend for that matter, since I now find myself relying on government assistance to make ends meet.  Yes, it's nice when you find yourself in a situation where you need employment immediately and you can hop right into another job because you don't have to arrange for daycare, or because you can accept any shift because you're not responsible to minors in the evening when child care centers are closed.  It's nice when your children are grown and you are responsible for no one but yourself, because you have a lot more freedom to choose.  It's nice when you're a man and there are an abundance of manufacturing jobs available to you, and because of your physique there are more opportunities period.  I don't have all of those luxuries.  My opportunities are less than half of that, but I'm trying.

I'm not proud of my situation.  In fact, I'm a little ashamed.  But I'm also ashamed of how I got here even if the fault is not my own.  I don't offer information on my situation to anyone but my family.  I've been in this situation for going on a month now but I feel like work is on the horizon.  I have some good leads and good people who are rooting for me.  I just have to have patience.

My priorities are always shifting.  Right now my top two are finding a job and living longer.  Oh, and I've finally decided what I want to be when I grow up.

When I was recently met by the Department of Human Services following the incident that changed our lives, I found myself less than impressed with the woman who had come to my home representing the organization to take a report.  She wasn't compassionate toward any of us, and I don't necessarily expect that, but when she sat on my couch and began texting I became perturbed.  An officer was sitting across from her writing his report.  After several minutes I finally spoke up:  "I feel like we're waiting for something?"

She looked up and looked at the officer, "I'm waiting on you."
To which he replied, "Oh, I was waiting on you.  I thought you wanted to walk through the house?"

Did they really think I wanted them kicking back in my living room (she had made herself very comfortable on my couch) for the evening texting and what not?

People like me, going through what I was going through at that time, shouldn't have to put up with this type of disregard for my situation and invasion of my personal time.  I think I could do her job better.  I think I could do her job with more empathy and more compassion, and I would be damn good at it.  Nobody understands me when I tell them, because after all, I had a really good job as a marketing manager, and I made good money.  But money doesn't make me happy.  I know that now.

I want to be a social worker.  And this worker is not my sole inspiration; it's also Clara.  It's all my children.  It's my compassion for people who find themselves down on their luck at no fault of their own.  It's mothers of children with disabilities who have limited resources and need a little guidance and help.  It's people who need someone to help them that understands.  And I understand.

I took a required state test for the position and passed.  Passing is a 55 and I made a 78.  That's not a great score, but I happen to know a social worker who has a masters in this type of work with a minor in psychology and she made a 79.  And she's smart!  I'm just waiting on that phone call for an interview.

And yes, going through this incident has made me realize I need to live forever--or at least as long as Clara is here.  While that's not likely to happen, I am heeding advice from various articles giving tips for life longevity.  One is eating a handful of nuts daily, which has been linked to longer life spans.  Another link is having a waist that measures less than half your height.  I have some work to do in that area, but I'm doing it.  I'm eating better and I'm exercising.

According to a report by UNICEF, annually, children with disabilities are 1.7 times more likely to be the victim of abuse than their non-disabled counterparts.  This will not happen to Clara on my watch.  Nor will it happen to any of my children ever again.