Today was a first: I left work early on the basis of mental health. The shift was a medley of things that get to me. There were busy locations, inaccessible objectives, cramped hallway navigation, degenerate amounts of ordered product, and aggravating customers. By the middle afternoon, I had finished what I was told to do, couldn’t easily find more tasks, and had to worry about wandering around looking like a dope or risk being subject to more customer service. On days like these, I can feel a certain pressure in my head. It’s like I’m a matchstick, and scratching at me can only result in something burning. So, I did what I’d contemplated so many times before. I punched out and left. I had good reason, so why did I feel so gross about it?
It’s easy to tell when someone’s physically ill, and it’s obvious why staying is a bad idea. You need to heal and could make other people ill as well. The same applies for mental taxation, but getting that across is so much harder, especially when you’re autistic. I’ve spent my life being told (or implied, at least) that my obstacles just need ‘getting over.’ I’m either not normal for having them or not normal for my inability to tolerate them. I felt obligated to keep grievances inside as much as possible, as attempts to express them were met with incomprehension or apathy. I still avoid awkward conversations like that, especially when I’m already at my mental limit; no way will I be able to stay calm and express myself properly. As such, I didn’t so much as tell my manager when I punched out, hoping that my comment would be enough. If he had a problem, we could talk about it Monday when the negativity is far behind. Just the idea of a confrontation is enough to worsen my mental state, though.
The universe decided to bail me out of a possible conflict. He happened to be outside on a task as I walked out. “All done for the day?” he asked. I couldn’t hear any sarcasm, which was promising, but all I could manage was, “Yeah, I’m really stressed out, I need some time to breathe.” I didn’t like how I sounded and was surprised by his simple response of “Okay,” and walking off with his cart. My mind is left racing. Was he short because he simply didn’t mind? Was he trying to contain annoyance? Did he have bigger things to worry about? My social instincts wanted to assume the worst, but I was getting away as well as I could hope, so I focused on the plan: getting the hell out of there so I could think straight.
I went to the library so I could pass a couple hours, keeping my family from asking questions. I ended up reading a whole book, How to Set the Page on Fire by Steve O’Keefe, whose advice is allowing me to get this writing down in record time. By the end, that pressure in my head was gone, and I felt fine about removing myself from that work situation. I know prolonged stress is bad for the brain, I don’t care about the job (only my mom’s reaction if I lost it), and I made something out of the excess time.
Dipping early isn’t something I plan to do often. I have an incredibly privilidged living situation to where I can get away with missing a lot of pay, which causes a lot of guilt when I miss work. I must also recognize that I must bend the 40 hour wagie mold when my mental health demands, as I bend the mold so much already. Which personal shortcomings must be accepted for what they are, and which must be wrestled with, is something I still need to answer. I feel I’m making more progress on that front than ever before. I’m willing to bail when I know I can’t take more, not stay put and wait for more bad things to happen.
