She sat across the desk from me, pencil and paper in hand, drawing a triangle on the page, each leg of the triangle associated with terms to healing. The words were all to familiar to me. I've heard them before, for different reasons. Yet this time, at this doctor's office, it finally sunk in. "Without reducing the stress in your life Lorraine, you will continue to either deplete the natural hormone creation your body produces and therefore, experience painful sex or you will slow your process to heal drastically."
At the time, I was working for my hometown's municipal government as the Borough Manager. My job was to recommend policy to seven council members, three water authority members, and one mayor on behalf of 4000 residents, along with ensuring state and local laws were adhered to. I also was the spokesperson to various boards, commissions and committees. I managed a handful of employees who operated the local street and stormwater maintenance, wastewater and water facilities and administrative office. I issued permits, maintained a three million dollar budget, acted as a chief project manager, wrote policy briefings, reports, and even challenged the state Department of Environmental Protection on a costly and faulty program our Borough was assigned to and won. As a result, I saved the town over a million dollars over a five year period. I lead our municipality through the ever changing stages of COVID-19, helped to draft ordinances based on the greater good of the town, started a Farmer's Market, streamlined processes and created comradery between departments separated for years.
Behind the scenes...
I was called a liar, a crook, belittled, threatened and held personally responsible for a hypothetical death should someone die regarding a code enforcement issue perceived by a faulty politician's personal vendetta. I was chastised by uninformed Borough residents both in person and on the internet. I was cussed at by one of my own bosses in a public meeting, lied to and faced daily intimidation. I continued to hold public officials to high standards, questioned their motives and most importantly, reminded them of the truth. Neither the longevity of their residence in the municipality nor their ability to spout off historical facts in order to grandstand elevated their decision making skills, or lack there of, in my book. Furthermore, prestige, political seniority and wallet sizes did not alter my recommendations, a foreign concept for a few of them. And even when publicly and legally challenged on their behavior towards their manager, this evil continued.
It didn't take long for the long hours, humiliation and anxiety to breakdown my body. My brain fired on all cylinders, on turbo speed, all the time. The mechanics in my head managed to not only coordinate administrative functions, employee relations, customer service, project management, research, strategic planning, daily operations of critical resources, legal proceedings, etc., it absorbed the weight of emotional and mental exhaustion from constant harassment. Ironically but expected, I couldn't sleep. Falling asleep took hours, followed by restlessness. Once I fell asleep, I had trouble staying asleep throughout the night. "I can't turn it off," I said to my therapist. "No matter if I practice mindfulness, drink a glass of wine, watch a favorite TV show, whatever, it's not working."
Being a Borough Manager requires one to work well beyond a forty hour workweek, which kept me away from not only Joshua but our home. Dinner table discussions were primarily a weekend only event and used as a place to let off steam rather than engage in healthy dialogue. Prior to being manager, I enjoyed cooking dinner for my husband, experimenting with recipes and new concepts. I prepped his lunches and we hardly missed an evening walk before turning in for the night. These things faded quickly. When I was able to cook, I made the most simple and quick meals I could think of; Joshua made his own lunch and walks rarely were an occurrence. These turn of events are not inherently wrong or bad but they certainly were a change of behavior in our household due to work responsibilities. To me, the dinner table should be a place of solace not a place for ranting, cooking an act of service to my husband not a chore and evening walks a way for us to connect, especially when things in the bedroom weren't possible. Other areas neglected included, hardly maintaining my home on the inside & out; I barely communicated with family unless in a quick text message and friends were hardly cared for.
At one point in time, Joshua and I took a small "vacation" - the kind where you still bring your computer, check emails daily and still answer phone calls. I remember Joshua pulling off the highway, coasting down the main street into town, tears welling in my eyes as I turned to him and whispered, "I don't want to be here (home)." Home meant work and work caused me to cringe. Immediately, I began to notice the code enforcement issues, the sidewalk maintenance and other small issues needed to be remedied in the coming week. I had reached my boiling point with the loudest residents complaining over nothing they truly knew the answers to, the politicians grandstanding for power that really didn't even exist and even more so, for the quiet residents tucked away in their havens - their silence more devastating than the complainers.
I'm convinced I started to experience miniature anxiety attacks towards the latter half of my tenure as Borough Manager. On the night of our public meeting, my stomach would knot and I would internally shake. I'm not sure if that makes sense or not but it's the only way I can explain the feeling . I don't think the shaking was visible but it would originate from my core and come in waves. I would feel immediately overwhelmed and highly agitated by behaviors of certain people, time, lack of common sense and the lies filling the room. Working diligently to maintain composure and keep my annoyed facial expressions at bay throughout the duration of the hour(s)-long meeting, I would scramble out with a migraine so penetrating, I sat in my dark office before mustering the strength to return home.
I'm not asking for pity or compassion or really anything here. What I'm doing is painting you a picture of what my twenty five year old body endured as Borough Manager and how the stress of the job effected my health, husband and home. And while I certainly knew how the toxicity of the job and its environment were crushing my spirit, my home life and service to others, I didn't desire to quit. I didn't quit because quitting equated to failure and failure because I couldn't cope with the stress. "That's pathetic and weak," I thought. Scooting my therapist's, family's, friends' recommendations to the way side, I tried desperately to swallow the pain of harassment from egotistical misogynistic men, ignored the neglect of my home, lack of attention I gave Joshua and convinced myself it would get better in time. Shocker, it didn't.
There was not a defining moment or a specific event causing me to resign, which I think made it harder to hand in my keys than if something major happened. It was on the premise of health, which is taken as a cop out in today's society. In fact, I had numerous people say to me, "so what's the real reason" or better yet, "I guess we'll see in nine months." Excuse me.... yeah okay, you keep watching...you'll be waiting.
There was no closure, just loss. I loved my work family so much and the work they accomplished on a daily basis. People took advantage of them and their knowledge, but they were and are the backbone of my town. I miss them terribly. Whether they miss me or not, I don't mind.
Leading up to my resignation day, I cried a lot. I cried at home, at work, in the bathroom, after meetings, in my car, in the grocery store - everywhere. I had not made peace with the decision and felt like I was abandoning my town, my coworkers, my savings account and I just felt horrible. I was scared to rest and to be unemployed. I was angry and confused."Why can't I do this," I would ask my therapist. "It's not that you can't, Lorraine. You've proven to yourself, the town and many more that you can do the job and do the job well," she would reply. I didn't understand her point. If I can do it and do it well, why do I have to leave?
I still don't know the answer to that question.
Here's the kicker and what I've learned in conversation, prayer and endless amounts of sanding furniture - my sadness, immense feeling of failure and stubbornness to endure personal attacks at a job are more than just underlying personality traits but "natural" responses when someone has placed their self worth in working/doing in order to feel valued either individually or for someone/something else. Culture has told us, especially as women, to work so hard for individual gain/purpose rather than stewarding our bodies, homes, friends, family, jobs as a collective service. We must be the top. Climb to the top. Work hard to be at the top. Deserve the top... at the expense of everything for ourselves. Therefore, we become hyper-focused, obsessed even, to work. We ignore our homes and prioritize the hustle. We've glorified power and high positions and top notch professions, money as a means for comfort, stressful positions, as the be all end all when in reality, this campaign is emotionally destructive. Why are we, as a society, working ourselves so hard for a product not worth dying for?
So when the top, for me, wasn't ascertainable any more I felt like I had failed my duty as a college graduate, woman, person because wasn't the goal for me to get a good job, work hard, climb the ladder so I could do all the things? Rather, what if my goal was to steward my home, care for my husband (and kitty), value my talents, support my friends and be present?
A few of the pieces from Gather.Vintage <3
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