It was a long week in Calcutta. Yesterday I realized just how mentally damaged some of my co-workers are, and they are supposed to be treating the mentally ill. The sad-ironic secret is that many of the "patients" know that their so-called therapist is as sick, if not sicker, than they are. I, for one, am left feeling sick to my stomach. Yesterday after a particularly hideous moment, in which one of the said co-workers hung up on me simply because I asked her for something, I got my bag, locked my drawers (against the master-key-owning thieves), got in my car and drove away. The hot leafy suburbs never looked or smelled so good.
I took care of an errand, and then got an iced grande iced coffee at Starbucks. Feeling calmer, but still sad, I drove back to Calcutta, tiptoeing through the cigarette butts and piss in the garbage-strewn garage. Went upstairs and talked my way through the remaining time with a couple of the more reasonable staff. Finally, 4 p.m. and time to get the hell out. Another week closer to retirement. Another week closer to leaving behind my patients, most of whom I care for deeply.
Why, you might ask, can't compassion extend to everyone, including the damaged co-workers? A good topic for another Blog.
