Privilege, Objectification and Restoration in Social Work

Until the early 1970s, Australia had thriving adoption machinery, within which young unwed mothers were forced by society, nurses and social workers to relinquish their babies. Some mothers did so willingly, while many did not. I will not address the details of that system, because I did not experience it, except that I was a product of that system. My birth mother did not want to give me up, but she felt she was given no other choice, and so she signed the papers which meant that in her words, I was taken from her (a ‘bad girl’) to then be given to a ‘good girl’.

A paediatrician bluntly noted on my birth records that I had a ‘weirdly shaped head’, and it was assumed that I was potentially disabled or ill. There was a glut of healthy babies available, so the adoption system chose to discard me. I started life as unwanted detritus, left over because I was inadequate, not up to scratch—not good enough for the ‘good girls’.

Consequently, I was passed off to a sociopath and her narcissistic paedophile husband, who also had two natural children of their own. When my adoption became official, my adoptive mother ominously told her in-laws, ‘Good, now I have someone to take it out on.’ From then on I was the family scapegoat, endlessly abused in a myriad of ways. By the time I was three years old, the abuse had escalated to the extent that I had drowned. I spent three days in hospital, including time in the intensive care unit. The staff in the hospital were told I had drowned at the beach. They made no enquiries or reports and returned me to my adoptive parents when I was well enough to be discharged.

When I was five years old, my adoptive father placed me in a children’s home for the first time, saying he had concerns about my safety if left with his wife. I was handed over to her not long after. (It feels important to note here that terms like ‘handover and return’ hold much graver connotations for me, than simply changing addresses. They represent mortal danger for me, and they also make me feel like I was a possession being passed around—an object). Around this time, teachers made several reports about my safety, based on bruises and injuries they could see on my body. A local doctor made a report, stating my adoptive mother was ‘marginally a murderess’. Even my adoptive mother started self-reporting, threatening if they did not take me from her she would kill me. In response to all of this, a social worker wrote a report which began with ‘I have grave concerns for this little girl’s safety’. He then coiled his way through a strange thought process which horrifically ended with, ‘Her best hope is with this family.’

My adoptive mother dumped me in a second institution when I was six, telling them if they did not take me from her she would beat me or kill me. Authorities again returned me to her soon after. At age seven she smothered me, an event I recall in excruciating detail. Afterwards, I awoke in an ambulance. My adoptive mother told paramedics contradictory versions of what she described as a ‘choking incident’—one story was staged at the dinner table and one was described as being due to vomiting whilst asleep in bed. Despite these obvious lies, I was handed back the same evening.

Within months my adoptive mother made further threats to authorities about killing me and then put me into a third institution. This time she said she was completely done with me, so I was then made a State Ward. In this latest institution, as in other institutions, she attempted to control how I was cared for—telling them how I should be dressed, what I could eat, and when I should go to bed. She even hit a staff member’s face when she found them brushing my hair, stating ‘It is not your job to be kind to her.’

After I became a State Ward, my adoptive mother was not supposed to have unsupervised access to me and her visits were to be kept brief. After badgering the Casework Supervisor for a week, she was inexplicably given a whole Sunday of unsupervised access at home. The Casework Supervisor’s documented reasoning—on a Friday—was that it was too hard to deal with my adoptive mother any further and there was not enough time to find supervision. It apparently did not occur to her to make my adoptive mother wait or prove herself. My adoptive mother then proceeded to kidnap me at the end of the home visit. She refused to return me for thirteen days. Nobody attempted to retrieve me from her during that time. Social workers allowed her to dictate when I would be brought back and where I would be handed over. Eventually, on my eighth birthday, she dropped me off at a fourth institution—a children’s prison—and was observed to have told me, ‘This is what happens to naughty little girls on their birthday.’

Soon after, authorities returned me to the third institution and a few months later I was placed with a foster family. The hope was the foster placement would be permanent. It was noted in my file around that time that I should not ever be returned to my adoptive mother, as I would most likely end up dead. Her ‘relentless pursuit of’ me was also noted on file and future social workers were warned to keep this in mind in decision-making. Not long after, my adoptive mother began efforts to sabotage the foster placement and told the government social worker managing my case that she wanted me back. Within a few months, I was again returned to her. I was nine years old. Six months later, I was released from State Wardship and monitoring of my safety ceased.

Starting within that six months and continuing for the next few years, I was locked in a bedroom whenever I was not at school. I was abused in various ways by all members of the family. I endured regular death threats from my adoptive mother. I recall being strangled, although this time not into unconsciousness. I was deprived of anything positive. I was underfed. I was forbidden to speak. I experienced torture. I was violently beaten, usually with a bamboo cane. I was deprived of regular access to the bathroom. I was not allowed to go outside, call or write to friends, attend school excursions, or play sports outside of school. At home, I was stripped of my name and sense of identity. I was also sexually abused.

In the first year, I tried to ask my teacher for help, but instead of taking action to support me, she called home and told my adoptive mother what I had said. My adoptive mother told my teacher I was a compulsive liar who was always making up stories to make her look like a bad mother, so my teacher did nothing. I was then left to face the consequences at home. I reluctantly but dutifully returned home from school every afternoon. The police station was only a block from the house, but I knew I could not go to them. This was because I was regularly reminded (and I knew from experience), that I would not be believed. There was no way out, and so it continued on.

Over those few years, my adoptive mother continued to discard me into temporary care, including a fifth, sixth and seventh institution. A pattern had formed, where she did so at Christmas, Easter, my birthday or Mother’s Day, thus excluding me from those family experiences. When she handed me over, she continued to report to authorities that she wanted to kill me, and each time she was still able to take me home again a few weeks or months later. Whilst I was in these places, she coached me to never reveal what was happening at home, equal parts convincing me it was none of anybody’s business, and of course by threatening me. Even in her absence, she ‘would know’ if I said something and there would be hell to pay. Records show there were a few occasions when staff thought they had earned my trust and might be able to get me to reveal something about my home life, but then my adoptive mother would visit and afterwards I would become very quiet again. I continued to be returned to her from each institution.

During my first year of high school, my adoptive mother enrolled me in the same school where she was teaching. At this point, I no longer had any time away from her, and the abuse escalated considerably. Amidst persistent death threats, she coached me to believe we were ‘having conflict’ and that I ‘needed to work on the problems in our relationship’. Eventually, I came to understand I had to save myself. About five months into the school year, convinced that if I did not leave I would be dead within twenty-four hours, I managed to escape. I was twelve years old. After a short stay in one of the previous institutions, I was then placed in an eighth institution for several months until ‘the case’ could be resolved.

In all institutions mentioned above, the staff objected to, or expressed ‘grave concerns’ about my return to my adoptive mother. In every situation, the social worker in the government department ignored those objections.

You might think a lot of these decisions were made by the same social worker. The truth is that from ages five to thirteen, there were at least seventy-two different professionals involved in my life. These primarily included social workers at various levels of power and in various institutions, teachers and medical professionals. With all of these people involved, not one of them had managed to permanently extract me from my deadly situation. Staff at the third institution did persistently try to advocate for me over about four years of my childhood, but unfortunately they were not decision-makers, and their concerns fell upon the deaf ears of state government social workers.

It is obvious my predators treated me as an object. It is also clear that the systems and social workers also treated me as an object. Rarely referred to by name in my records, I was a ‘case’ around which unfeeling, thoughtless and outright lazy decisions were made. More effort was put into report writing than into protecting me. Decisions literally affecting my potential mortality were approached as though they were administrative instead of human. In the end, due to the carelessness of so many, I experienced unimaginable trauma and pain. The consequences for me have been endless.

Now that I understand how things unfolded, I have developed a healthy fury towards the systems and individuals who did not step in or withdrew when they were aware I needed their intervention. ‘Good people’ made decisions that have permanently reduced the quality of my life. Some of these decisions could be described as wilful disregard for my well-being. Even more, when I was a State Ward, the system and individuals within it had both parental and fiduciary responsibility for me, which they absolutely failed to fulfil.

Part of the reasoning behind the repeated returns to my adoptive family, was based on the overriding principle that connection to family should be maintained and restoration to family should be the goal, in order to support a developing sense of identity. This principle has long been upheld as one of the highest priorities in case management. However, this is frequently at the cost of the child’s well-being. In my case, it happened repeatedly, even though the family in question was not my biological family. In theory, at all points in time when I entered the system, my adoption could have been annulled. I could potentially have been adopted by another carefully selected family, but instead, I was repeatedly returned to my abusive home life, because... my identity was important?

Connection or return to abusive family settings does not aid in the development of a healthy sense of identity and is likely to cause permanent damage. Being returned reduces the child’s sense of safety and well-being. The child’s trust in others is also broken, and an understanding develops that adults outside the family will not really be able or willing to help. Of course, this means the child is isolated and more vulnerable to abuse than ever before. Placing a child in harm’s way is simply not helpful. It seems to me this should all be very obvious to social workers, but for the most part, the restoration principle still holds high value.

The good news is there is a relatively easy alternative. Building connections to supportive extended family members—who are not part of the abuse dynamic—is a way to help the child build a healthier sense of identity and connection. In line with this, when abuse is present, I would ask social workers to incorporate creative solutions around maintaining connection to family of origin.

My second objective in writing this article is to impart that when any person is given the power to make decisions in another individual’s life, that power is a ‘privilege’. It is a privilege that can be squandered, as seen in my story, or treated with due regard. At its core, it necessitates an understanding that every decision made, no matter how small, will either help steer a person’s life in a good direction, or veer it off course. Such privileged decision-making requires constant diligence and dedication.

Social workers decide not to act, or to act. In social work, and indeed in all human and health services systems, every decision made or undone on behalf of another human being has the potential to culminate in pronounced and deleterious impacts. In real terms, decision-makers have the power to make our lives more difficult or to make our lives better. This context represents a rare binary: if a beneficial outcome is not deliberately intended, a bad outcome is likely to occur, and suffering will follow. Knowing this, anything less than proper and serious regard for well-being can only be described as callous disregard.

It may seem uncomfortable to approach decision-making in this binary context. To that, I would posit that social workers do not choose their career expecting to be comfortable. Ethical questions arise. Is it acceptable that a child goes through additional suffering to ensure a social worker is more comfortable at work? Where is the line? Exactly how much suffering can we allow others to endure? Why become a social worker in the first place?

In the case of my own childhood, I believe in many instances the social workers, many of whom avoided interacting with my adoptive mother beyond a single meeting, did so because she was difficult, domineering, intimidating and manipulative. Perhaps they sensed they were dealing with a dangerous individual and simply wanted to get away from her. Whilst these adults were running away or practising avoidance, they left me to deal with her alone, at ages five, six, seven and so on. There is no denying the direct outcome of their avoidance was the extension of my suffering. They were not my abusers, but they certainly carry some responsibility for my experiences and outcomes.

It is the role of the social worker to be self-reflective, at all times understanding the power they wield and examining their decisions, thought processes and the consequences of their action or inaction. This is responsible work practice. Perhaps it is also important for social workers to consider how they want to feel about themselves when they look back at their week, their year, or even their career. Do they want to know that they cleared a lot of cases, or would they rather know they prevented and reduced suffering?

Social workers’ decisions to not act, or to act, lead to real-life consequences for other human beings. I want decision-makers to adopt a core principle that when they have the power to dictate the trajectory and quality of another person’s future, it is understood to be a privilege. This privilege is weighty, but immeasurably important. Let those privileged decisions be mindful, empathetic, intentional and trauma-informed. The power social workers have over others must always be rooted in a foundation of honour and seriousness, mindfulness, compassion and respect. I think it is fair to say that if these values had been observed during my childhood, my story could have been entirely different.

Addendum

Since writing, I have learned that although the general public perception (and common lingo) suggested that social workers were making all of the decisions described above, many of the people in my case may not have been qualified social workers. Many of them were government employees who were trained internally, but had not necessarily been academically trained as Social Workers. I was surprised to hear this, as my own experience was always ‘It’s time to meet your new social worker’. Regardless of whether they were qualified social workers, those I met would have been mostly referred to internally as ‘Case Workers’, so it is difficult to discern each individual’s credentials unless they are stated. In addition, many senior staff would not have been social workers. Importantly, properly qualified social workers might easily have made equally bad decisions anyway.

From my lived experience perspective, in a nutshell, my message is important for all decision-makers—including but not limited to social workers. Reduction of harmful decision-making is what matters.

Author Biography

Vee Warn experienced institutional systems in New South Wales, Australia. She was placed in eight institutions and at least seventy-two documented professionals were responsible for her between the ages of five and twelve. She has recently worked through records from these institutions and pieced together her own history.