I had to call in today.

And of course they have to know why.

And of course I flounder around trying to find words that will work. Being INFJ means I’m essentially unable to justify an untruth, most especially one coming out from my own mouth.

Are you sick?

Kind of.

Do you have the flu?

No.

And I mumble something about just not being able tonight.

Is it your nerves?

That brings a dry little laugh.

Sort of but not really.

‘Nerves’ implies instability and the professionals I went to back in the day emphatically assured me that I’m one of the most stable people they’ve ever encountered.

Being INFJ my communication skills lie in the written word, not in being put on the spot to provide an immediate answer to someone whom I neither know very well nor trust to understand what I mean.

How do I communicate the very real and entirely legitimate physical and emotional distress associated with something so very few of us have to try to live with on a daily basis?

Even the ones I’ve tried to get to look into it either haven’t bothered or think it’s hooey – or something.

No it’s not ‘nerves’. No it’s not the flu or a broken bone or anything else that might make sense to 97% of the world I live in. It’s being INFJ. It’s being an empath, if that helps clarify it for you. I don’t like the term but it’s one that more people have at least a little comprehension of.

At a job interview one time I was asked, ‘What’s your greatest strength?’

‘I care. Deeply.’

‘What’s your greatest weakness?’

‘I care. Deeply. ’

Nobody I know really understands the toll taken nor the consequences I pay for choosing to remain a CNA. I’m not in it for the money, not when I bring home barely 800 bucks a month and  for seven months of the year 400 of that goes to keep one room of my house at 50 degrees.

I do it because I can’t manage to turn off the love I bear those whom I help as best I can. It’s worth the price I pay to do what I do.

I’m good at what I do and I know it. So do my people know it; they love me and I love them, and it shows.

The very thing that makes them love me is the same thing that costs me so very much.

I care. Deeply.

A large family gathers at the bedside of a much loved parent. The unexpectedness of their emotions catches me off guard and suddenly I’m drowning in a deluge not of my making. Unable to catch my breath I seek solace in busyness and feel the support of my team as we do what needs doing. The family seeks me out; between my busyness and their focus there’s not much time. Bombarded by the feelings that are thick in the air I shield myself as best I can, focusing my attention on tending to the needs of others. When one who has become a friend of sorts sees me, out reach the arms of this strong person. She needs more than her own strength right now; in her eyes are agony, grief, and an unmistakable relief at the sight of me. A world of pain is transmitted in one glance and I stagger within myself for a moment, accepting it, feeling it as though it were my own. For that moment it IS my own and as I accept her hug a part of the pain goes into me and through me, easing her hurt just a little for just a moment – and it’s worth it. To me, yes it is worth it to accept another’s pain if it gives them even a brief and partial respite. And so I make it through the hours, step outside for five minutes of alone pacing and weeping, letting the tears carry tiny portions of the pain away from me as they drop from my face. I love the parent of this family, too. And they know it. They see my tears through the tears in their own eyes, and they know. And so I lower my shields and accept as much of their anguish as I can, not nearly enough, before I have to step away again – focusing once more on the needs of others. My internal resources are depleted; those very few who know me well enough recognize this. They may not understand it but they recognize and respect it. Home at long last my body wracks with the sobs I can finally vent. Through the night they come and go until dawn brings morning bird song to make me smile, and sleep.

The tears carry a lot of it away; the sleep begins the healing; writing it out brings more of both; finally sleep will again claim me and the process will continue until I can again eat. This is a sign that I am beginning to feel myself, that my strength is returning both for defensive purposes and to share where needed, to be taken and given. This has been a very difficult one for me and I feel it to my DNA.

The repercussions linger, sometimes in physical symptoms but not always. I am drained; asking me to function and perform as usual will not magically restore what has been taken from me and given by me. A time of healing is necessary, not optional.

So am I sick?

Kind of.

Am I functional?

Certainly.

So why did I call in?

Functional in terms of being not dead does not necessarily mean I’m anywhere near up to par. I would rather not subject myself to a ‘second verse same as the first’ scenario and I’m fairly certain my tapped-out strength would not stand up for long in the face of the emotional assault I pretty well know would hit me; it’s affecting me even from here – going into it in an already weakened state would no doubt lead to tears on a job where such things are most assuredly not encouraged nor accepted. I would get sent home; if not, the toll would be more than I am willing to bear. Better to call in and face whatever fallout that generates than add to the burden of a family already in distress.

How can I possibly convey all of the above in a word or two to someone who can’t possibly understand?

If I could fake having the flu, or lie about things, it would probably make it easier for everyone.

Then again, if I could do that, what kind of person would be looking back at me from my mirror?

People are forever asking me how I can be so happy all of the time, how I can smile and sing. More than once I’ve been told that I carry peace with me, and give them hope because I am proof to them that not all is dreary and dark after all.

And they’re not wrong. They are seeing true. Within me does live happiness. And smiles and Song. Peace reigns even when it doesn’t feel like it. In me, in you, in all of us if we choose to find it, accept it, live it.

But what my people see comes with a price tag for me that even those closest to me rarely know about.

When the price has been paid I am once more able to share the happiness, the smiles and Song, the peace.

I’m not just taking a lazy day of doing nothing out of a desire to get out of work.

How many times have I done this?

Twice in four years, far fewer than have been needed.

Mostly I ignored my own needs and pushed myself to perform until I was literally dropping in my tracks, a choice encouraged and expected of me. Segments of our society seem to think menial workers HAVE no needs other than a paycheck; lip service is given but … ONE person, ONE in four years, took one step when she saw me literally exhausted almost to the falling over point. After I had put in some doubles and was going into yet another one, she sent me home. It was the DON who just happened to be passing through on one of her rare visits to the Units. My condition must have been appallingly obvious – but I was going to put in that double because it was necessary.

Pushing oneself physically is one thing, and not really so very bad as a general rule. Pushing oneself emotionally and spiritually is a whole different ball of wax.

Since this has already reached ‘massive missive’ status, I’ll continue. The rest of this is likely to be a diatribe: forewarned is forearmed: read on only if you have a desire for reality, and the stomach for it. If you don’t like it, oh well.

Once when our whole team was feeling the stress, not just me, we asked for help. We got sent to some ‘counselor’ who didn’t know what Compassion Fatigue was until I explained it to him. This guy was a professional whose clientele includes people in the medical industry, mind you. His solution was to suggest we run ourselves a bubble bath in the middle of the afternoon; in addition he handed us a CD and told us that listening to his voice as we fell asleep would do us a world of good. This was after we refused suggestions of pharmaceuticals.

We don’t need drugs; we don’t need bubble baths; we don’t need some strange guy’s voice in our ears.

We need respect and recognition. And real help.

At the time we had several sundowners who became more agitated as evening wore on, our shift. We requested quieting things down before their sundowning got into full swing – turning the television off, putting on quietly soothing nature sounds with calm music background, dimming bright lights … for our benefit as well as theirs; US staying calm would help, too. Nothing happened and we held ourselves together as a team as best we could, talking to one another and supporting one another through it. Two of us only, from that team, remain.

Burnout is probably the single most preventable thing in the world –

In one group meeting I was called ‘STUPID’ with emphasis, and referred to as a cow, along with many of my colleagues. This is not a cherished memory. It was, however, a turning point for me. It made me ask myself, ‘Really, Shiela?  Just exactly HOW STUPID are you? How much like cows are we, really, to sit here in obedient silence and allow this person to speak to us with such obvious derision and scorn?’

Dropping down to part time cost me about half of my income, between the fewer hours and a four dollar an hour pay cut.

It also gave me the freedom to begin viewing my part time job AS a part time job, not the be-all and end-all of my then-bleak existence. It took some time and a lot of adjusting but I soon realized that I was feeling alive, really truly alive (with energy, and everything! WOW!) for the first time in quite a long while.

When I could tell myself, and believe it, that from the time I clock in until the time I clock out my time and talents belong to someone else, it helped.

What helped even more was when I could tell myself, and believe it, that from the time I clock out of that part time job, until the time I clock back in, my life belongs to ME. I am in no way obligated to make it any part of my life between clock-out and clock-in.

If someone should have a problem with that I know of a couple of good counselors who would be happy to help them cope with their problem for under $175.00/hour. That’s an expense I would have been shouldering myself, plus gas money and the time it takes to drive halfway across the state and back once a week (a full day) – just to be able to continue in my job.

Scoff if you will; that was my other option.

Sitting down and weighing the odds, putting the pros and cons into black and white, I figured that if both options were going to cost me half of my income I was going to go with the one that gave me HOPE.

It has done more than that.

It has given me a life again.

Either way I was going to be poverty-stricken; the difference is that survival is not truly life. I wanted to find out if I could actually live.

A year ago I would have apologized in advance for possibly offending with parts of this.

Now I make no apologies.

When I clock in at my part time job the best I have to offer is on the table.

When I clock out I take it with me as it belongs to me.

Writing this out of my system on this day is part of the healing process.

What I do with it once it is written is my choice.

Whether or not I share it is up to me. When and where and how and with whom I share it is up to me.

No I’m not clocked in.

Yes I have nevertheless given this day to my part time job, more hours than I would have given had I gone and clocked in.

Not in the way some would have preferred (that would be the clocking in part whether I was ‘able’ or not), but in a way that will allow me to go back to it healed and strengthened – which is a better deal for my people, all things considered. They need and want and deserve a fully functional CNA; they need and want and deserve the best I have in me.

Wracking weeping, tears carrying away toxins and pain, sleep, writing, more sleep, a meal, more writing, and again sleep – this has been needed on this day. It isn’t always like this, but today it is what it has taken for me to regain the strength that will be required of me.

So yeah, I had to call in today.

Am I sick?

Not any more. I’m recovering now.

If you have a problem with my reasons, I’ll see if those counselors can fit you in.