Thursday, December 30, 2010

disclosure - work

I think it might be time to disclose at work. I did not want it to get to this point but life here at work is really impacting my health. It's been 3 months since our second counsellor left- with no new hires. I've been doing the job of two people and it's getting to me. It doesn't help that my office is on the second floor. Sure I can limit how many times I go up and down those stairs, not so bad. But when (if) another counsellor ever gets hired I'll be going back and forth from the basement office to the "classroom" (main floor) to my office on the second floor. Not going to happen, hence I've got to out myself.

So instead I went to the only confidential staff person on sight to feel out my outing. He cannot say anything to anyone, including my boss or HR: He's bound by G-d. And of course when I told him what I have (I simplified it and said heart failure, none of the big/birth words), his reaction is exactly why I haven't told anyone including my boss. When one says heart failure, one knows what that means. Immediately he said "if I was your boss I'd want to know that I can't be calling you down to my office every hour (between clients and classes) only for you to have to do those stairs again". Ok, but here's the problem: this is neither government, nor union run. I have no job security. Essentially the only thing that's keeping my job secure is that there's no one else here right now to do what I do. And I do a lot, and it's getting to me, because I'm becoming more limited in what I can do. I am only getting by this week because there's no programming. It's "professional development time". Except in adulthood PPDay doesn't mean a day off, it means updating curriculum and files and cleaning out my office.

Before I went to see our chaplain I had to stop half way and take a sit. I couldn't make it across the building. The painful sloggy edema made me stop and rest. Even with my legs raised (only by 12") under my desk I feel like my feet are planted in a sea of water. This isn't fun anymore. I'm so glad I said no to another contract. The same people that call me every year around this time to do mental health research called me last week, and even though I was working full time last year, I took the contract anyway. I packed the hours in during the weekends and mornings. This year, although the money is tempting (could pay for my divorce), I finally said no to work. Yes me, my father's daughter. I need to live a little longer, please?