My life as a professional helper


I am compassionate, empathetic, soft-spoken and professional. I help people who are living with a mental illness, up to a point. Excuse  me, sir, you can’t just barge into the middle of my blog and start talking. Why not,k my 1970’s hippy radical self responds. I need help. You may or may have come to the right place, depending upon your circumstance.

And by the way, where did you get that bush jacket? You bought it in a spur of bad taste and don’t try denying that to the little cuties you’ve been seeing. If I had met her, we would have had a good time together.Well, nonetheless, let’s return our narrative to the topic of help.Who are you and why do you need help? well, Kenyatta, both of us lve in one of the most racist cities in America, where you can’t get access to housing, good jobs,  or a real life if you have kinky hair and thick lips. I keep returning to school to get something that has eluded me and which none of the programs offers. Which is? Self respect.

Self -respect is a laudable goal but given your deficits one might consider it a little grandiose. If you could make this something measurable, something I can wrap my head around, perhaps I could make a referral.  Kenyatta? Are you the one who wrote “And someday in Mozambique, South Africa and Angola, we will be all?”

Things were different then, I howled back in my best professional voice. In what way, he responded with a disarming calmness. I didn’t have a professional degree, I didn’t make referrals, I was not a billable service. In fact, here I am wasting my time with you when I could be reaching more people with my blog about professional peer support specialists. Instead, I’m tied down talking with some 70’s hippy claiming to be me who wants to change the world. The hippy got up to leave, turned back to me once more and said, “So I guess we won’t be all?” I tore up the referral sheet.

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