From drugs work to the grave

Tuesday, December 18th, 2012

It’s a funny thing, contemplating a career change. We all spend years expressing internal groans at the sound of the morning alarm, hiding underneath the duvet, begging and praying that some natural disaster has occurred overnight that will suffice as an excuse not to go in today (death for a few people is surely a justifiable pay-off, no?), only to discover from a quick scan of available media that today is a day like any other. Shitbags. But the brief glimmer of hope that you might not have to deal with X,Y and Z today has meant, unavoidably, that you have now carved a brain-path directly to X, Y and Z – and so work starts straight away.

The simple joy of the morning shower is spent internally arguing with the nob-end that sits near you in the office, who you would never come into contact with socially and would subtly shuffle away from if you had the misfortune of a chance encounter in a public arena, but have to not only tolerate but attempt to be civil with, every miserable working day, leaving you resenting your pay-packet because it represents you whoring your soul to the devil. Then breakfast, surely intended as a pleasant and civil part of the day, is made somewhat less so as your bran flakes remind you of the dead, flakey skin around yesterday’s necrotic wound, and you find yourself wondering whether this would have the texture of a freshly-served crisp flake or a milk-soaked chewy one. And despite your attempts to gee yourself up with one of your favourite albums on the way to work, the sense of impending doom induced by the knowledge that today is going to entail battling the Safeguarding referral system (“Sorry, run that by me again – this is supposed to be a high-threshold, fast-response referral process, created to protect children from the most severe types of immediate harm, but you won’t take verbal information and no longer offer the facility for me to discuss the case with a social worker first – so I have to spend an hour completing paperwork, then face the traumatic, potentially damaging and counter-productive scenario of informing the family I have serious concerns about their parenting and so are breaching their confidentiality, in the knowledge that you will probably knock it back or do nothing about it anyway?”) means that you may as well be listening to someone shouting “You are mortal and one day, possibly soon, your time on earth will be over, more than likely following a period of extreme pain” in a broad South African accent, for all the relaxation the music provides. And that’s before you get to work to discover what shit has hit the fan overnight – who has been arrested, who has been admitted to hospital and, unfortunately, on occasions, who has died – and start getting paid.

But – for all its pains and strains and drains – not only does it pay the bills, it has seen you through some hard times. There is no better distraction from a failing relationship than a critical deep vein thrombosis with severe cellulitis; no quicker way to forget about personal tragedy than premature labour induced by persistent crack use.

However, without this job, would the relationship fail? And for everyone one case worthy of your emotional input at a time of personal heartache, how many needless metaphorical arse wipes must you perform? How many faces do you imagine smashing into desks with screams of “If you rip the copper out of your own boiler your landlord has every right to evict you, that doesn’t make you a victim – my own tragedies far surpass yours so I frankly couldn’t give a shit about the hole you have just dug yourself into!”? Imagine getting home each evening with something left to give other than anger and irritation at the world…

It’s a strange pay-off, and one which I am currently making attempts to unpick – is the emotional investment (or drain) offset by the distraction from one’s own problems? To what degree are these intense investments and distractions responsible for the lack of progress in one’s own life? And, fair enough, I might not want to be a drugs worker any more – but if not a drugs worker, then what? Do I have an identity at all? Or if I jack it all in, will I slip into a deep depression, brought on by a sudden lack of purpose, and find myself opening cans of baked beans with a screwdriver underneath a motorway bridge?

The only way I can resolve this internal dialogue is to remind myself that – if I stay in this job, I am likely to become ill(er) in the head, have very little or no chance of maintaining a healthy and drama-free relationship, and will probably, at some point, slip into a deep depression and find myself opening cans of baked beans with a screwdriver underneath a motorway bridge. I think I can make a fair, educated guess that, in this case, it is not better the devil I know. And so, career or no career, there is no healthy future for me as a drugs worker – and whatever the months and years ahead may hold, at least for now I have you lot to rant at, and have a sense of purpose in my attempts to inform and entertain. Thanks guys, you are keeping me (relatively / debatably) sane. And anyway, I like bar work.

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