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Last night took suck to an extraordinary new level.
When I showed up, there was just me and one other cow orker. A trainee. A competent trainee, but a trainee, nonetheless.
Bossdude says, you'll be fine ...
(I have learned to define "fine" as Fucked up, Insane, Neurotic, and Emotional. I am an experienced mental health professional, after all.)
There were twelve scheduled patients. Or maybe eleven. Between walk-ins and return from hospitals that we hadn't known about, we ended up dealing with seventeen. Fuck, I said. Fuckity fuck fuck, I said. A lot.
The trainee says, "I never heard you say that word before."
I am always surprised when people say this to me.
But I guess, that unless I am under extreme stress, like last night, I have been keeping a lid on it at the rehab.
Fuck.
It was one of those nights where I didn't get to eat dinner. I had made a grievous error. I took something that I had to microwave. I think this was the second time since I've worked there that I've taken something other than a sandwich for dinner. By the time I realized I hadn't eaten it was around 2130, which was past my point of no return for eating dinner. I sustained myself on corn nuts and peanut butter crackers. And some fruit snacks.
Fuck.
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