The good fight...

I cried at work. Now that I'm outside of the situation, I've had a moment to let it soak in. I, Afton Marie Rutherford, C-R-I-E-D...at work. I can remember the very first time I cried while working (very different from crying at work). I'd just removed two girls from the arms of their loving father. I took them into protective custody until the D.A. could ask the judge to award their father custody. This was done so that they would not have to endure the abuse of their crazy mother. Their father was crying. They were screaming. Their grandmothers were crying and holding one another. They stood there waving and crying until my car was out of sight, possibly longer. Who wouldn't cry in a situation like that? However, in an attempt to remain "professional", I held it together until I was driving away. Even then there was no flood-gate effect. Tears flowed silently as I drove. I pulled myself together quickly and, remembering that I was not the one ripped from the arms of my father, focused on comforting the girls and communicating with Christi about transporting them to their foster home. That was October 1, 2002. Things were very different on July 8, 2004. I was sitting in the break room with coworkers. They were eating and I needed a distraction. I'd gotten to work incredibly late because I was up until the morning hours continuing my late-night battle with insomnia. (It's winning, in case anyone is keeping score. I think it's something like 13-2.) I mentioned to a Amanda that I wished she'd taken me up on my offer to bring her client to the office because then I would've been forced to wake up at a decent hour. She replied that it was no big deal because she's getting used to me being a slacker. Ouch. Of course, she was kidding and on any other day I would've had some equally sarcastic remark to shoot back at her. No need for apology. Unfortunately, my slacker-ness (new word) was the source of guilt running through my mind before I started the conversation. So naturally, in my very Afton way, I excused myself and walked silently to my office. She came in briefly, but I was very cold toward her and quickly asked her to leave. After she did I got up, shut the door, stood next to it with my foot propped against it so nobody could come in, and I cried. In times and in places that I feel I need to remain composed, I always try to fight off serious crying spells. This one was no exception. But it fought a good fight and I was too exhausted to really care. I gave in for a few moments and then collected myself enough to call Danna to go out and smoke with me. She wanted to know what was wrong, but I was still too shaky to really be honest about it. So, I just told her I was exhausted and frustrated. She didn't ask many questions. I'm sure the cracks in my voice gave her some indication that a wound was still open. I had an equally emotional time later, but it was one of uncontrollable laughter. Unfortunately, that moment passed quickly and venturing out into the heat consumed the rest of my afternoon. During routine home visits I had several clients comment that I was not myself that day. I acted surprised and disclosed that I was just tired and the heat was overwhelming. Both of these were true. I generally choose not to share deeply personal moments with my clients. They will never benefit from the knowledge that there was more going on. I never thought that taking positive steps toward self-improvement could be so frustrating. My dad keeps telling me to be patient and stop beating myself up. I don't think I'm beating myself up; I'm just impatient with the fact that I'm not in control of my body right now. I know that getting leveled out on the medication will take time but when it comes to my body, I'm a control freak. I'm talking possessive, stalker, ex-girlfriend control freak (luckily I can't be arrested for acting this way toward myself). I fight anesthesia. I woke up while my freaking wisdom teeth were being taken out. And the nurse was shocked when I was sitting up in recovery just minutes after the procedure. It was much the same after my other surgery. I've never done any major drugs because I refuse to experience a severely-altered state of mind. I will never believe in or fall prey to hypnosis. But hold on, here's the real shocker in all of this. If I'm being completely honest with myself, I have to admit that these behaviors are all protective barriers I put up so that nobody will see me in what I consider to be a weaker state. Having said that, I must point out that I made the choice to give in to this medication and I refuse to let myself alter the dosage or quit taking it without my doctor's approval. In this way, I have finally given in just a tiny smidgen and allowed an outside force to take control of my body. Just like everything else I'm doing these days, I'll continue to give in so that in the end I will be one step closer to being in control of the things in my life that really matter. I have to choose my battles so that I always have enough strength to fight the good fight.
"Adversity is the first path to Truth." Byron, 1819-24