Tuesday, May 16, 2017

when work is toxic

I tend to believe sometimes the word toxic is bandied around too easily.  The toxins in our food and air....the toxic family members...that Brittany Spears song from the 90s...

But the thing is, when it comes to people, well, it's often it's real.  When you walk around your office with a feeling of dread, and anxiety, because some of your bosses (and yes, I have more than a handful of bosses, despite being a boss of sorts myself) might say something that makes you feel even more dread and anxiety, that's well.... toxic.

I have one boss - the big honcho boss of my organization, actually - who has always raised my blood pressure.  I've mentioned her in this blog before.  When I suggest that something is black, her immediate reaction in a room full of people is to say I am wrong, but of course it's white justonemore, what are you some kind of moron?  About a month ago I spent a good deal of time stressed out that I would be required to attend a meeting in Atlantic City on the day of my FET and that I would have to explain my reason for being out, HIPAA be damned.  She makes no bones about believing in our mission to the point where she made many sacrifices on the family front.

Well, I am not the current subject of her ire for the time being, but I just learned a much-loved colleague is.  This colleague (like everyone it seems) sometimes supervises me.  So my sometimes-supervisor came to talk to me today, and spent a good hour crying in my office, about how she loves her work, but feels like she is between a rock and a hard place with our boss.  And to be honest, she is.  Their relationship has deteriorated to a real point of no return, and I don't think my beloved colleague has any real choice but to take her considerable skills elsewhere.  Not a fun thing to do when you're looking at four years until retirement eligibility.

And when she dried her eyes and left my office, I felt my blood pressure rise, and the bile build up in my stomach.  I am going to miss this colleague.  Maybe she will be here another year, but I am definitely going to lose a supportive friend.  Not to mention PBFAW may never return to our office now that she has two young children.

And I deeply want the opportunity to mother another baby - I mean, you have to want it to endure this hell known as pregnancy after loss after loss after loss.  But man, I am in what is quite possibly the least supportive environment in the world to embark upon this journey into the realm of the insane. (And yes, there is a decided lack of sanity in choosing to set yourself up for another bout with PTSD).

At some point, if this crazy plan works, I am going to be forced into some kind of conversation with honcho boss. I say this because I am assuming that if this works I will start to grow a baby and as small as I am, I will certainly start to show. Honcho boss will either:
a.  Tell me I'm crazy because I'm too old, or,
b.  Tell me I'm crazy because it's apparent to anyone that I already have a hell of a time juggling my job and Niblet.

This unsolicited conversation won't go well.  Now, let's be clear, I give less than a single fuck about what this woman thinks of my personal life.  But that doesn't prevent the dread in my bones, and the bile in my stomach.

In some ways I am happy that I am an RPL survivor.  I know beyond any question that stress has never killed my babies.  Chromosomal abnormalities, a fucked up situation where an egg was fertilized by two sperm, and a random shitty birth defect led to the stack of rings on my finger,  Stress?  Nah, I am not going to let the stress mess with my head.

But man, it sure feels awful.

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