So I’m trying to write this in English

 [Yesterday was such an awful day- and I tried to change my template, the other one was definitely uncomfortable, but blogger wouldn't want to, so I've just done it, like it? and exams on 20 days and I’ve done nothing in the whole term]

There’s a few days since I decided to write something about I. I. Is a mentally disabled young man I met when working in Disabled Summer Camps. He had violent attacks and I, between the whole working team, was his favourite subject for them. So I was afraid of him. He would grab me by the arm, put a terror movie mad man’s face and strongly stick his nails on it. He wouldn’t stop whatever a did/said until some guy (normally my beloved elf) came and told him to stop. So I was afraid of him. So when the attack was finished and he was a nice guy back, I would tell him “Stay away” and he would sit down a couple of metres away from me and i would tell “far away” and he would stand up and walk five more metres and sit down again. And then I would feel guilty and horrible for treating him that way.

I was specially afraid of waking him up at mornings to give him his medicines because that meant to be alone with him when everyone else was sleeping and I would have to scream out for help if I wanted my Elf to come and save me. I’m not exactly good on asking for help... But I. Would never harm me in that situation.

Tehn there was the bus thing. When the camp was finished two of us would have to go on the bus whith the group. That year it was another girl and me, which meant big problems if I. gor violent. So I was, obviously, afraid once more. It was about the middle of the journey (it was not a long one) when I. stood up from his place on the front of the bus, walked all the way to the back where we were and sat down in the free place beside me. I was terrified. He held my arm and said “Home” and then he smiled. I felt so sorry for him. I don’t know what his disability was because we weren’t told, and I wish i knew because he was on a camp to have a good time and he obviously had a bad one. That moment on the bus made me feel he was sweet, but I haven’t seen his smile until that very moment.

And well, now I’m speaking about how we didn’t know any medical details about the people we were treating. It was part of the privacy policy of the centre they lived on: we were not doctors so we didn’t need to know. I didn’t like this and it proved extremely unefective:

There was “C.”

“C.” Apparently was a tranquil mentally retarded middle age woman with self-violence attacks and that was all we could see so we treated “her” having that into account.

Then one day, the nurse would speak too much and told some of us what follows: <<“C.” has 28 diagnosed personalities>>.

So I got totally mad. So we had been treating 28 as if they were 1. OF COURSE IT WOULDN’T WORK, HOW DO YOU PRETEND THAT TO WORK??!! ARE YOU REALLY THAT STUPID??!!

I felt everything was so stupid and nonsense and suddenly I was so unconfident about the work we (I) were doing and I couldn’t stand the situation. We were doing it pityfully and it was their fault.