Apparently I'm the Problem.
Working in adult social care can be incredibly difficult, especially when mental health is involved. Sometimes it's even more challenging when you're supporting older people who have spent decades believing the world owes them something. I've worked in care for three years now, and in that time I've supported people with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, personality disorders, dementia, and all sorts of complex needs. Most of the time, no matter how challenging the behaviour is, I can build a professional relationship with them. I can usually find some common ground. There are very few people I've genuinely struggled to connect with. This man is one of them. He's 87 years old and, to put it bluntly, he's a jerk. Three weeks ago, after being off work for two months, I returned and was allocated to support him. Even before what happened, he already had a reputation among staff, especially female staff. He constantly objectifies women, makes sexist remarks, talks down to us, calls staff useless, and generally behaves as though women exist purely to serve him. It's exhausting. That day, before anything happened, I'd actually spent nearly half an hour talking to him about boundaries and respect. We discussed how he speaks to female carers, how inappropriate some of his comments are, and why his behaviour isn't acceptable. I genuinely thought the conversation had gone in. I couldn't have been more wrong. As I was leaving, he suddenly reached out, grabbed my hand and refused to let go. Not because he was losing his balance. Not because he needed help. He simply held onto my hand and began stroking and groping it in a way that immediately made my skin crawl. I told him several times to let go. He didn't. I tried to pull my hand away, but he simply tightened his grip. I had to be careful. He's an 87-year-old man, and if I'd yanked my hand away too aggressively and he'd fallen, the conversation would have been about his injury rather than the fact he'd just sexually harassed a member of staff. Eventually I managed to free myself. One thing about me is that I process emotions quite slowly. I don't always react in the moment. I think a lot of that comes from how I grew up. By the time I've figured out what I'm actually feeling, everyone else seems to have moved on. So although I felt uncomfortable, I wasn't overwhelmed straight away. Instead, I sat down with him and told him exactly what was going to happen. "That was completely inappropriate." "I'm documenting this." "I'm reporting it to management." I was calm. Direct. Professional. His response? He smirked. Then he started pretending he had no idea what I was talking about. Apparently, according to him, he'd only grabbed my hand because he was losing his balance and thought he was going to fall. Except... He was standing in a doorway. I looked at him and said, "Do you really think I'm stupid?" To this day, I think that's probably the closest I've ever come to losing my composure at work. He looked at me, still smirking, and asked, "What do you mean?" I replied, "You were standing in a doorway. If you were genuinely losing your balance, the first thing you'd do is grab the doorframe, not reach backwards for my hand." There was no answer to that. Because we both knew exactly what had happened. I completed the incident report, informed management, and tried to move on. Or at least... I thought I had. After I got home that day, I realised just how disgusting the whole thing had made me feel. I scrubbed my hands over and over again. It wasn't about being clean. I just wanted the feeling of his hand to disappear. I couldn't get the feeling of his hand off mine. No matter how many times I washed them, I could still feel it. Three weeks passed before I had to support him again. To be honest, I'd mostly put the incident to the back of my mind. I was still disgusted by it, but life and work move on. You don't really get the luxury of dwelling on things in this job. When I arrived at his house, he was upstairs. Completely naked. I stood at the bottom of the stairs and called out, "Are you dressed?" "No." "Please don't come downstairs until you're fully dressed. I don't want to see anything." To be fair to him, he listened. It shouldn't feel like something worth mentioning, but after everything else, I was grateful that at least I didn't have to have that conversation. Once he came downstairs, I got on with the visit. I made his lunch. Administered his eye drops. Made sure everything else was sorted. The whole time he complained. Apparently I wasn't doing enough. Apparently I wasn't helping him. Apparently he was paying "good money" for this service, and I was useless. Then came the comments. The usual sexist rubbish. Women should help him get dressed. Women should clean him. Women should wipe him after he's been to the toilet. Women shouldn't work. Women should do it all for free. Honestly... If ignorance burned calories, this man would've been the fittest person in Britain. I smiled politely, redirected the conversation where I could, and reminded myself that professionalism sometimes means biting your tongue so hard you nearly draw blood. Eventually everything was done. I sat down and asked him what he'd like to do next. "We can either go for a walk, or I can make you an egg sandwich." He looked at me and said, "I can't go for a walk with you." That caught me completely off guard. I frowned. "Why not?" His answer came without hesitation. "Because of what you've done." I genuinely had no idea what he meant. "What have I done?" He looked straight at me. "You know what you've done." I was even more confused. "No... I don't. What are you talking about?" Then he said it. "Because you reported me. Now I'm frightened to go for a walk with you. If I fall and touch you, you'll report me again. And because of you, the ladies don't want to come here anymore." I honestly think someone could've knocked me over with a feather. Somehow, in his version of events, I was the problem. Not the man who grabbed a member of staff and refused to let go, but the woman who dared to report him. That sentence stunned me. Not because he was angry I'd reported him. But because he genuinely believed that was the problem. I looked at him and said, "Because I reported you?" He nodded. "Yes. If you hadn't reported me, none of this would've happened." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. So I asked him, "Do you really not see the irony in what you've just said?" "No." "It's all your fault." "If you hadn't reported me, I wouldn't have this problem." I remember just staring at him. Then I said, "No. This isn't about me reporting you." "This is about you doing something that was worth reporting." "You shouldn't have touched me." "You shouldn't have grabbed my hand." "You shouldn't have ignored me when I told you to let go." "The report wasn't the problem." "Your behaviour was." He just looked at me. Nothing landed. Nothing clicked. There wasn't even a flicker of understanding. In his mind, he was the victim. Not because he'd been falsely accused. Not because I'd misunderstood him. But because I'd held him accountable. That, more than anything else, shocked me. The thing that disturbed me wasn't even the original incident anymore. It was realising that there are still people who genuinely believe that women are responsible for the consequences of men's actions. Not because they've done anything wrong... But because they've dared to say, "No." That conversation has stayed with me far longer than his hand ever did. Because his hand made me feel dirty. His words reminded me that some people genuinely believe accountability is something that's done to them, rather than something they've earned.