"What the hell are you running from?" My answers range anywhere from "Dinosaurs" to "Mondays and my impending responsibilities."
My first job out of college was at a transitional housing shelter in Baltimore, Maryland. As an Advocacy Counselor, I handled a caseload of 8-10 clients. I would meet with my clients 2-3 times a week connecting them to any helpful resources such as addiction counseling, employment services, and housing services. My caseload included clients of all ages and backgrounds with a range of circumstances: Ryan White clients (HIV/AIDS), veterans with disabilities, individuals who had been incarcerated, and people with mental health needs or a history of substance abuse.
During the initial client intake interview we would work together to set goals in order to maintain their spot in the housing program, which required them to actively seek employment and maintain sobriety. I would have a list of deeply personal questions ranging from "Where did you sleep last night?" to “Have you experienced any trauma in the past 9 months?" I was usually met with a blank stare or a resounding "Duh."
One day, I sat in and listened to a senior advocacy counselor, Buddy, conduct a client intake. Buddy would begin each interview the same way: "What's your story?" The question was then followed by what felt like the longest and most awkward period of silence. After sitting there for what felt like a year, the client would completely open up, sharing everything at their own accord. Buddy would simply sit there silently, slowly nodding. When the client was satisfied with their story and all that they shared, Buddy would always end with "How can I help you help yourself?"
With my very next client intake, I tried Buddy's tactic.
Me, feeling hopeful: “So, Demetrius, what's your story?"
Demetrius: "F*ck you."
After a few attempts I began to get the hang of the intakes and find my own flow. I started by sharing my story and opening up first, talking about how I ended up working there and my passions and my fears. At the time I was training for my first marathon, DC Rock ‘n’ Roll. I let clients in on my world and they let me in on a part of theirs. I lived not too far from the shelter, so many of my clients would spot me on my runs.
As a kid fresh out of college, I felt way over my head. I had clients lie about their whereabouts or completely miss curfew and show up to the shelter intoxicated. One of the hardest parts of the job was when a client would relapse. After relapses, depending on the case and severity, I would either have to create an action plan or conduct an exit interview. "You can't stay in this program‒you need to find a new place to live" are the hardest words I've ever had to say. I would be so angry and confused as to why someone would throw out so much progress. It was disheartening after investing so much time in a person and not seeing them succeed... During the exit interview I would have to ask if there were any specific triggers that led to a relapse. Most of the answers boiled down to something like "Life felt like it was too much to handle. I just needed an escape."
Running through the streets of Baltimore became my refuge during my time at the shelter. Running offered a temporary escape from the demands and pressures of the shared trauma and stories of the day. With each stride, I felt the weight of stress lift, replaced by a sense of freedom and clarity. My running journey quickly transformed from a casual healthy coping mechanism to a purposeful pursuit when I decided to train for that marathon. This transition showed me a distinction within escape... Instead of feeling as if I was running away from my problems and stressors, I was pursuing something bigger.
I found that the clients that were able to successfully complete the program were the ones that took accountability. Many of my clients were in anonymous programs, and I began to see the biggest change in many as they grappled with Step 10: Continue to take personal inventory and admit when we are wrong. Life is hard. There is a place for temporary solace, but it's easy to get caught up in healthy/unhealthy means‒relying solely on escaping can hinder personal growth and prevent us from addressing underlying issues.
Accountability means facing challenges head-on, acknowledging one's role in situations, and actively working towards solutions. It requires introspection, brutal honesty, and a willingness to make amends when necessary. Taking accountability fosters resilience and personal development by empowering us to learn from our past and present errors.
Both "escaping" and taking accountability have their places in life. It's essential to strike a balance, recognizing when to seek moments of respite without entirely avoiding responsibilities. Combining a healthy escape with a commitment to taking accountability can lead to a more well-rounded and fulfilling approach to navigating life's complexities. Ultimately, I've found that harmony between these two aspects can contribute to a more balanced and meaningful existence.