work

Grief in the Time of Work-from-Home

~ Carie ~ 1 Comment

September 13, 2020, marked exactly six months of work-from-home. Our team has been told there won’t be a return to the office this year, and when we do return sometime next year, it will be a different experience. This news has me reflecting on all the emotional ups and downs of discovery this time has offered.

The stages of grief are real, even though you may think you are prepared and ready for the situation. Some moments tend to bend what you thought was a straight path.

Denial, Numbness, and Shock

Being sent to work from home was a moment of “Introverts unite!” I feel there was a collective sigh in the universe for those of us who might have needed a break from people. Waking up that first day and realizing I didn’t have to go into the office was delightful, refreshing, and filled with the excitement of a new adventure. I did a little dance and had an “I got this” moment. Yes, I got a bit cocky since we introverted types seem to be designed for just this event.

For the first 80 business days, I sent cards and postcards out each day. You can’t imagine how relieving it is to use the stationery I had stockpiled over the years. My office supply stash seems to have been my version of doomsday prepping because who wouldn’t want a postcard at the apocalypse? I knew I would ultimately be able to take the isolation, but I had to do something to bring cheer into someone else’s life. The occasional USPS delivery of snail mail makes me smile. It was what I had on hand to help others’ smile, too.

I found myself slowly seeing the daily card as another item on the to-do list as the days continued to tick by. One more thing to check off. One more assignment. I lost joy in the thing that brought me happiness. It had become a duty and not a gift. I had to take a break from it, which, in turn, broke me. 

Bargaining, Depression, and Anger

Waking up felt like needles pressing into my skin. There were new aches, new pains, and new ways to distract me. 

I invented hobbies that would make a dent in my collection of craft supplies. (I still have a long way to go to use up that stockpile.) I made masks. I taught my neighbor to sew so she could make masks. I decimated my wardrobe and reorganized my closet – then moved on to my fridge and pantry. I painted my patio furniture (almost done). I’ve pulled weeds, fertilized, and watered to the point that the yard and plants managed to survive summer for the first time. 

I found new ways to avoid life in general, yet came to an understanding as to why some housewives suddenly snap. The isolation is too much.

Amid my avoidance strategies, something miraculous happened. I received cards in return. Bright moments I cherish like Golem and his Precious. These gems are my escape from the mental drudgery the unending days have become. I am reminded I am not alone.

Acceptance

I will openly admit I miss my family, my friends, and even my team of co-workers.

I miss the daily runs to Starbucks (even though my bank account doesn’t). Not because they make great coffee and tea, but because it was a joyful moment each day with whoever at the office would venture with me. The line may have been a little long at times, but it was my moment to feel like Norm walking into Cheers. The crew knew me. My drink was ready. There was goodness in my cup.

I miss unicorns, lots of sparkle, and nails that are totally on fleek. I share my name with one of my co-workers. Shouting, “Morning, Carrie.” does not have the same ring. I don’t hear a giggle every weekday followed by a cheery, “Morning, Carie.” in return. Now I’m only talking to myself.

I miss everyone. So much happened in the office leading up to the day we received the notice to pack up and go home. So much has happened since. We haven’t been together to talk about it. We send memes, texts, and emails about everything, including our TV binge addictions, but it feels a bit hollow since we can’t sit together at lunch or meet at the snack table to really get into the nitty-gritty and throw around some much-needed sarcasm.

I am comforted by the knowledge that these people are out there. We’re waiting in suspended animation for that moment when this is all over. We’re making plans. We’re finding hope because that’s what we truly have. 

We have hope for the future. We have dreams to realize. We have love to share.

Stress Pools

~ Carie ~ 4 Comments

I work too hard. You may not believe that statement.

I come from a long, proud tradition of workaholics. We don’t know when to stop. We let work grind us into dust. We are so focused on what has to get done, we forget about the things which need to be done.

My father is a prime example. Aside from the two consecutive weeks each year he took off to drive around the U.S. with the family in tow, I don’t remember a day he didn’t go to work. He was gone before I woke in the morning. He walked in the door as dinner was being set on the table. Even today, he doesn’t stop. He’s retired, yet he’s unable sit down and relax. He has to be doing something. Anything. It’s go, go, go, until he sits down and passes out.

And then there’s his offspring. We’re not the best examples of how to live a full life. We try, but even the bulk of our travel is for work. Over the last year, I transferred to a new position, got a promotion, and dove in to the deep end of my personal pool of stress. It has paid off—in some ways. People love what I do. It’s a blessing, but confounding at the same time. I’m drowning, barely able to dog-paddle anymore, yet people stop me to compliment me. So hard work pays off. Right?

Would it pay as much if I worked a little less? Would people like it if I didn’t give it my all? I don’t know. Thing is, I have no right to complain. Every day on the news after filtering through all the extraneous celebrity hype, I’m reminded of people who have nothing, people who are hungry, people who are ill. I’m allowed to sit here and moan over work and stress.

A dear friend of mine is going through chemo. I can’t imagine that process. My descent at the office is nothing compared to her day-to-day. My closest experience was decades ago, and I was only radioactive. I couldn’t hold my nephew for most of the first year of his life. No skin to skin contact with anyone. No public restrooms. No reusable dishes. I hate to clean the bathroom today because I had to clean and wipe it down with bleach every day. I did do things I shouldn’t have, because I was only radioactive. I didn’t go to the doctor every week to have poison pushed into my body. I recovered and grew stronger. My friend suffers and grows weaker as she fights a cancer. This is supposed to make her stronger. So, my workaholic ways and the resulting stress are poppy-cock. She tells me my overwork and stress are real. I’m comparing apples and oranges. I disagree. They are both fruit.

It filters down to life is short. Our epitaph shouldn’t read, “I worked a lot.” No one would notice if I didn’t work into the middle of the night. Those things I’m killing myself to get done can wait. I need to reset my brain to understand it’s okay. I’m not a superhero. I’m not going to be the one to save the planet, especially as I sit in front of a computer putting together marketing plans and writing corporate blogs. My work is meaningful, but the world will continue to turn whether I’m stressed or not. My friends and family, on the other hand, may be happier if I spent more time with them. Maybe even on one of those two-week road trips.