When Drew lived with me, I was scared.

Not of him, exactly. I was scared for him. And I was scared of what his fear might make him do.

Drew was paranoid. He thought I was poisoning him. He called the police on me once, convinced I'd attacked him with a syringe. There was no syringe. I hadn't been within eight feet of him all day.

A social worker heard what was happening. She gave me advice, well-intentioned: "File a restraining order."

I didn't.

I couldn't articulate why at the time. It just felt wrong. Like using a hammer to perform surgery.

Now, after some research, I understand why my gut said no. And I want to share that, not to criticize the social worker—she meant well—but because the difference between good advice and right advice can be a matter of life and death.

The Problem With the Hammer

Restraining orders are designed for domestic abusers. People who use power and control strategically. People who make choices to intimidate, isolate, or coerce.

That's not Drew.

Drew wasn't trying to control me. He was terrified of me. His paranoia wasn't a tactic. It was a sickness. He didn't need a legal document telling him to stay away. He needed someone to stay with him, calmly, repeatedly, until the fear subsided.

Research shows that even survivors of actual domestic violence sometimes avoid restraining orders because they fear it will escalate the danger. If that's true for people being abused by strategic abusers, imagine what a restraining order would have done to Drew.

He would have seen it as confirmation. She is dangerous. The state agrees. I was right to be afraid.

His paranoia wouldn't have decreased. It would have exploded.

The Right Tool for the Wrong Situation

The social worker wasn't wrong about restraining orders. For a domestic abuser, they can be effective. They activate consequences. They create a paper trail. They offer legal protection.

But Drew wasn't a domestic abuser. He was a paranoid schizophrenic in crisis.

The psychiatric literature on de-escalation is clear: the priority is avoiding coercion, using calm tones, giving space, and never issuing ultimatums. A restraining order is the opposite of all of that. It's formal, adversarial, and delivered by police.

For someone already living in a reality where everyone is trying to hurt them, that's not a solution. It's a trigger.

What Drew Actually Needed

Drew needed a crisis team. He needed medication. He needed someone to sit with him and say, over and over, "I'm not going to hurt you," until maybe, someday, he believed it.

He did not need a court order. He did not need more people in uniform telling him what to do. He did not need another piece of paper confirming his delusions.

I couldn't give him what he needed. I was just a person with a spare room and a lot of hope. But I could at least avoid making it worse.

So I didn't file the restraining order.

The Harder Truth

The social worker meant well. She was trying to protect me. And in 90% of domestic violence cases, her advice would have been sound.

But Drew wasn't the 90%. He was the outlier. And applying a one-size-fits-all legal remedy to a unique psychiatric crisis is how people like Drew end up dead.

Not because anyone is evil. Because our systems don't talk to each other. Because we default to the tools we know. Because it's easier to recommend a restraining order than to admit we don't have a better answer.

What I Want You to Know

If you're a social worker, a therapist, or anyone who gives advice to people in crisis: please know that restraining orders are not a universal tool. They work for some situations. They are catastrophic for others.

If you're someone like me, living with someone like Drew, and your gut tells you that a restraining order feels wrong: trust yourself. Do the research. Ask questions. There is a difference between good advice and right advice.

And if you're no longer here, Drew—I'm sorry I couldn't help you more. I'm sorry the systems failed you. I'm sorry that the best advice someone could give me was still the wrong advice for you.

You deserved better. Not a saint's eulogy. Just... better.