Cynthia

I met her yesterday for the first time, really. I'm walking in and the apartment reaks overwhelmingly of cigarette smoke. She's in a towel and cussing out her mother and I'm trying to not make eye contact while simultaneously sending the vibe that I'm trustworthy and she doesnt have anything to worry about... yeah right. I don't know what I'm doing and I'm quite frankly terrified becuase I'm pretty sure Cynthia's coming down from a bad trip on PCP.

"I know she used drugs this weekend. I can see it in her face, her attitude change, her words change, she just diff'rent, and she don't think I know but I know, I see it."

Ms. Felicia Hayes has had it with Cynthia yelling and swearing at her. I don't blame her. She's in curlers and trying to relax, quietly explaining to me that her son is in jail, she suffers from depression, she recently retired from a job cleaning a hopsital her whole life, and now she has to take care of Cynthia. The tv's on and some commercial comes on for bipolar medication: "it can feel like you're drowning..." I'm thrown for a loop; Ms. Hayes needs just as much as help as her daughter and she's telling me she expects me to basically take over for her, but she's saying it in this gentle voice that makes me continue to nod along to the requests and I'm not processing really, I'm simply going with the flow of the conversation and before I know it I'm lulled into agreeing to take over Cynthia's life. A list of what she needs. Why she needs it. Where and when she needs to be places. Doctor's visits--

"You stole my fuggin' money! Sit over there like you don't know what I'm talking about, you know you took it! Don't know where else it gon' be? Shit. Stole my fuggin' money."

Ms. Hayes shakes her head and I look at Cynthia. Her anger broke my trance and for the first time I get a good look at her. She's light skinned, and her eyes are huge brown pools of sadness. Her hair is in weaves down her scalp and it's an obnoxious blonde color; she's itching it because it was done yesterday. She was wearing a towel, but in her fit of anger, it fell and she's disoriented and fumbling for it, picking it up from the dirty floor, but taking her time. She's not worried about who sees her, or who might walk in the door. She looks at me as if I'm supposed to join in the blame game, and she's not at all worried about putting the towel back on. Cynthia's only got one objective right now.

"Look at her."

It's a command, and her mother is staring grid-locked in Cynthia's eyes. Daring her to make eye contact. But Cynthia's looking at me.

"I said, LOOK at her!"

I turn around to face her mother as briefly as possible before Cynthia is satisfied. But her mom is still looking right at her daughter; her 42 year old daughter who has a son in jail, a teenage daughter with 2 kids, and a drug problem that eats her money and causes her to blame others. Ms. Hayes is the epitome of helpless, and I feel the same.

The towel's back on. Thank God. I'm trying to talk to Cynthia privately, but the entire time, all she can tell me is she lost her bus pass and her phone and again, it's my responsibility to retrieve these things. I agree to pick her up tomorrow and take her downtown to the Transit Authority to get a new bus card, but only if she agrees to go to an NA meeting on Saturday. Technically, we're not supposed to bargain with clients but I don't know how else to get through to her.

I barely get to the car before I break down. I'm in the middle of shit, shit Anacostia and sobbing for the poverty stricken world to see, this pathetic little white girl in completely over her head and not knowing what to do with a woman on drugs and a mother who's just as lost and confused as I am. I'm furious and I still don't remember that car ride back to work. All I remember is driving home that day, screaming at God, so angry that He would create some people predisposed to fail, it seems. I keep seeing Cynthia and the wells of anger boiling up from the drugs. But really they're from the fact that her son is in prison, or that she tried to be loved by men only to be raped and abused, or she was shot in the leg and watched her friend die beside her, or that she suffers from depression stemming from trauma so severe, she struggles to truly remember the events that have happened to her throughout her life. Why did God put me in a family that loves Jesus Christ and raised me in a loving environment? Why was I never a victim of drugs or violence or abuse? How do you pick, God? Who gets lucky and who gets screwed? Why are some people so much better off; why did I get the chance to go to college when there are others who are so much more deserving of these chances than me, and who may actually take better advantage of them than I ever would? How do you pick and choose?? I don't understand God, and I'm so angry. I'm still sobbing when I get to Kiara's home and she lets me cry for a while. The tv's on and I recognize the bipolar medication commercial that I heard at Cynthia's apartment; "like you're drowning..." I calm down and start on the paperwork. Tomorrow I'm seeing Mr. Moten in the morning and Ms. Hayes directly after. Long morning. I should sleep a lot tonight.