After looking at all those thousands of pictures of razor blade wounds and burn marks I thought that I might dream about cutting last night.
I shouldn’t have been concerned.
I tell people that I don’t take my job home with me, which is mostly true. Being a call-to-call job based on reaction instead of projects with deadlines, it’s easy to leave after the last call of the day and not worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow starts with a clean slate.
Yet some calls linger. The parents who lay down in a bed with their infants for a nap and accidentally roll over and smother them to death – those calls will haunt me for a while. Ditto the teenaged girl who arrives home to finds her brother has committed suicide with a gunshot wound to the head. I can carry the sense of horror home.
That kind of stuff I consciously try not to dwell on. Writing about it helps but a certain lingering sense of the unfairness and inhumanity proves helpful to keep me going too.
This is what I do. These situations are what I get paid for and what I get great satisfaction in reacting to appropriately.
While I don’t exactly spring out of bed every morning whistling because I’m so happy I get to go spend 12 hours working for the Man, I do have a sense of pride in what I do.
If I won the lottery (if we had a lottery and if I was the type to buy lottery tickets) I’m not sure what I’d actually do. I’d have to have some organization in my life or I’d slip into total agoraphobia.
Which, I guess like cutting, wouldn’t be all that bad if one could still function. Yet it wouldn’t be much of a life either.
Luckily I don’t have vast wealth to corrupt me. Ha!
Also, don’t forget to visit Tricia! She updates often and usually has something interesting to read.