An Argument in Favour of Compassion

My job, ideally, should not exist. People should care for one another instinctively, should be generous to one another, should supply for each other’s needs, and there should be no need to pay people to care. People relate to people. They do not relate to systems, and they do not relate to titles or job descriptions. The reality is, though, that people get forgotten, and other people have to be paid to care. That leads to the development of systems; with the systems come codes of ethics, which demand that people be empowered to solve their own problems, and not forge friendships with workers.

The Australian Association of Social Workers released a code of ethics in 1999, most recently updated in 2004. In Section 4, it states:

“Recognising that conflicts of interest can arise from engaging in dual or multiple relationships with clients… social workers will set and enforce explicit, appropriate professional boundaries to minimize the risk of conflict, exploitation or harm.” (AASW Code of Ethics, 4.1.4.g)

For those who don’t speak AASW jargon, a ‘dual relationship’ is one in which a person fills more than one role – in this instance, for example, trying to be someone’s social worker and their friend at the same. Dual relationships are considered to be problematic. Indeed they very often are. To use another piece of jargon, the existence of a worker-client relationship creates a ‘power differential’ between the two people; that is, there is a significant difference in the levels of power held by each party in the relationship. This is only logical, when you think about it: the client comes to the worker to receive assistance with problems that they are not able to solve themselves. While social work is heavily based on helping a client to identify and employ their own solutions to problems, rather than taking control of the situation and ‘fixing things’, there is still a difference of power that exists, almost unavoidably. Add to this the fact that many social workers are wielders of governmental and legal power, often for the purpose of compelling a client to attend a program or therapy session, and the difference in power held by each person can become substantial.

A ‘power differential’ is not something that is necessarily problematic within the social work context itself, though it can inhibit useful work. However, when social relationships are founded on interactions in which all (or most) of the power lies with one person, problems very often occur. The possibility for abuse, manipulation and control or, on the other hand, interpersonal dependency, is very real. It’s for that reason that the mantra has developed in the field, “I’m your worker, not your friend.” That’s why workers don’t (or shouldn’t, and usually don’t) go on non-work visits with clients, or more recently, accept invitations to be friends on social networking sites.

None of this means that social workers don’t genuinely care about their clients. For my own mental health, and for the sake of my family, I try not to bring my work home, on paper or in my head. Having said that, I have had, and I continue to have, clients who haunt me after hours (fortunately only in that I think of them: I’ve never looked out my kitchen window and seen one in my yard yet…). I know, from speaking to my colleagues, that most, if not all, of them, have had the same experience. None of us can explain what makes one client’s story more touching or tragic than another. Abuse, loss and pain are there everyday, under the surface, even if not directly visible. Sometimes though, it walks with you when you leave the building at the end of the day. A young person who will sleep on the streets because they have no home preys on your thoughts as you sit in your heated car; a single mother, going hungry because there’s rent to be paid, comes to mind as you begin dinner. Social workers care deeply about their clients; when they stop caring, it’s time to find another job.

But we continue to draw up those professional boundaries, for those good reasons: I’m your worker, not your friend.

Last year I attended a case-conference for a client who was in foster care. I’ll call her Kelly, though obviously that’s not her real name. The reasons why Kelly was in care are not relevant right now, but it’s enough to know that her mother couldn’t look after her; she didn’t have enough personal strength to make the changes necessary to keep Kelly when she was a baby. Kelly had no idea who her father was.

For the first few years of her life, Kelly was in a long-term foster placement, but eventually her behaviour became too problematic, and her carers were no longer willing to keep her. She was moved to another long term placement. Again, she stayed until her behaviour became too problematic, and then she had to go. At the time of the conference, she lived in what is known as ‘Transitional Accommodation’. To get through another piece of jargon, that means that she lived in a house with about five or six other young people, and was looked after by multiple carers, on a rotating roster. There are no fulltime carers in the TA houses – regulars, but no one who lives there.

Shortly before that conference, Kelly began to get close to one of the carers, and told her more details about her life and her mental health than she had told anyone previously. However, she also began to self-harm, and the worker began to feel under pressure, as she was the only real contact that Kelly had. The worker’s supervisor responded in keeping with the AASW Code of Ethics, and suggested that the worker be reassigned to another house, for her own safety and mental wellbeing. Kelly seemed to be trying to form a friendship with a worker, which had the potential for trouble.

Kelly was 13 years old – just about the age of starting high school. Remember being that age. You would have been developing into a teenager, certainly, but in most ways, you were still a child. Your experiences would have been quite limited, unless you had an unusually informative upbringing. That was Kelly’s stage of life.

Kelly’s mother couldn’t or wouldn’t, or a combination of both, make the changes necessary to keep her child. Her two long term placements ended with her being told ‘you are too big a problem to stay, so you have to go.’ Her living arrangements when I met her left her with no family, and no stable living companions outside of another few kids, all with similar problems. And as soon as she began to forge a new relationship with a positive adult, that adult was to be taken away.

At the age of 13, Kelly was told that she has to solve her own problems, and though people would support her in that, they would only be paid professionals. She cannot form friendships with them. They cannot love her.

Across the entirety of this planet, there is not a single person who will stand in front of this 13 year old child, and say ‘I love you, and I am here for you, no matter what.’ Not one. She is 13, and she is alone.