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About forty years ago, I was on the receiving end of a difficult discussion.
I was on the phone with Dad and giving a really lame excuse for why I had failed miserably in my first semester of college.
“I was burned out.”
I don’t remember Dads response verbatim, but the theme of the ensuing lecture resonated.
Engines need stress.
Well crud.
I guess I can’t get burned out.
Actually, I can. I just can’t quit when I do.
The Blogger Laureate had a tough week recently, folks.
Set aside the fact that Wifey is in the other room at this very second, arguing with the dog. Those two are obviously having their own tough weeks.
It all started at the end of the week before when a persistent and ugly rumor at work was confirmed by management. One of our offices is being closed down at the end of next year.
Whereas I’d like to think that the hostile taxation policies in the state where that office resides was probably the final straw, I won’t let my confirmation biases reign supreme in this case.
There’s a reason the rumors were as old as they were, and they pre-date the aforementioned hostility.
Naturally emotions are running high.
Most of the people in that office—people I work with and even report to—are fellow Gen-Xers who’ve been counting down to the day they can hit the “I’m ready to retire” button on the HR section of the intranet.
When the news was delivered on Thursday, everyone in the office was sent home and told not to come back until Monday. After all, you can’t really tell someone that you’re cutting them loose and then expect them to fire on all cylinders for the rest of the day or week.
Those of us in the surviving offices picked up the residual workload for the remainder of the week.
It’s totally understandable that one should attend to their mental health when the Task Manager is needed to reset a stalled or non-responsive process.
After all, I took the day off when Faith, the TharpSter Treadmill passed. I should have done the same when we had to say goodbye to Charlie (aka Mag-B the SLab). Hope, the TharpSter PitBull left us on Friday after work, which gave me the following weekend to recover.
In my own little solipsistic world, fostering mental health baffles me.
Mental health days are for people who need…
Mental health.
I don’t need mental health.
I just need outlets to reset my processes.
That’s why I go to church (among many other reasons).
That’s why I read a lot.
That’s why I walk the dog a lot and take him to the park.
That’s why I hit the gym several times a week.
That’s why I hit the range where I use a cordless device to punch holes (approximately nine millimeters in diameter) into pieces of paper which feature concentric circles.
Rest assured, I did all of those things after the bad news was handed down.
By Monday, things were still off. I still wasn’t rested, refreshed, and ready to attack the new week and the new set of moving parts which had just been introduced.
This was disconcerting. Did I have some of that mental health stuff that needed to be fostered?
Should I take the day off?
That internal discussion took place in my head for fractions of a second on Monday morning when my alarm went off. I dismissed it immediately and got ready for the day ahead.
After all, engines need stress.
By the end of the workday, I had put in my time.
I attended the meetings I needed to attend.
I performed the tasks I needed to perform.
Even still, something was still off.
Thankfully, the doorbell rang.
It should be noted that I’ve had a few days to reflect on that event. Rest assured, I was not thankful at the time.
There on the walkway up to my door was a six-foot tall, strapping young man hoping to convince me to engage in pest control services offered by his employer. It seems they had a truck or two in the neighborhood and wanted to give everyone in the area an opportunity to vanquish the assorted creepy-crawlies which neglect their monthly HOA dues.
The problem is that I have a ‘No Soliciting’ sign which spells out in very specific language that knocking on the door or ringing the bell in hopes of engaging me in commerce will be viewed as an act of disrespect, and that it would be better just to move along.
The problem is that there’s a specific group of people who ignore that sign repeatedly. That group is made up of six foot tall, strapping young men who are selling pest control services.
One of my hobbies could easily dispatch with this cavalcade of idgits, but that would be way too easy, way too illegal, and way too wrong.
Instead, I used very direct language with him. I inquired about his literacy and his ability to understand the sign on the door. I questioned why I should purchase anything from anyone who showed no respect for my wishes.
“Because sir. When I knock on doors with those signs, people tend to buy our services.”
After all, engines need stress.
I can only imagine what the discussion was like a few hours later when he gathered in a team huddle with the boss to recap how the day went.
“Well there was one guy who chewed me out for ignoring his sign. He then told me to have a good day and slammed the door in my face.”
To which, a few of his colleagues would respond. “Yeah I’ve been to that house. He did the same thing to me too.”
“Yeah me too. It’s almost like he didn’t mean it when he told me to have a nice day.”
I’m of the mind that my best pest control is printed on a sign on my door. Sadly, it’s not 100% effective.
Something else came out of that interaction though.
By Tuesday morning, I felt better. My internal monologue didn’t question my mental health for a second when the alarm went off.
It was as if my onboard Task Manager had identified a process that needed to be tweaked. The only way it could be corrected was for me to engage in a difficult discussion with someone who desperately needed it.
Forty years ago, I was on the receiving end of a discussion that ultimately became mine to deliver.
Only later did I realize I was also on the receiving end of the very same message I delivered.
The underlying message was that there might be an infinitesimally small piece of mental health inside that flesh-tone skull of mine that needs to be fostered.
Apparently, that particular piece of mental health is fostered by berating pest control salesmen.
