I just realized that I'm gonna have to go back to work. Probably this week. I'm just debating on when I wanna go back. My regular days off are Sunday and Monday. My appt for the re-evaluation is Wednesday. I can probably get by with going back next Tuesday (my "Monday"), but I'm not sure that I want to be thrown back into the swing of things 1) on an early weekday, and 2) when I'll have to work five straight days.
Should I go back on Friday, which is normally crazy for the first few hours, and then slacks off? Or Saturday, just to get my feet wet, which is normally calm enough that I can even get some knitting done? I'm really leaning toward Friday, not only because it will save me a day of leave, but also because I can really get back to work as it normally is, and make sure I can handle it.
I am sure I can handle it. I'm just not entirely sure I can handle it without drugs. I'll be asking for a refill on my emergency pills, just in case, but I'd really like to be able to make it through my workday without needing to self-medicate.
The only part of it that still sends me into a panic attack is the thought of the phone calls. Particularly, the phone calls from psycho relatives of inmates, who insist that I, personally, will be going to federal prison for beating their son-husband-grandson-nephew-friend-babydaddy. Or the calls from the new girlfriend or fiance of the inmate who doesn't understand why she can't bring her child to visit him, because her child is a boy, and he raped his daughter. Or a repeat of my all-time favorite phone call in which I refused (at almost friggin midnight, by the way) to give a woman information on why her "friend" was in confinement, or when he would be released from confinement, to which she replied, "Thanks for nothing, you fucking bitch!" before slamming the phone down in my ear. Seriously, I can't make this shit up.
Remind me to tell y'all sometime of some of my more memorable, hilarious phone calls, like the lady who (I swear) must have escaped from the loony bin and then called me from a payphone, or the inmate's sister who called twenty-seven times in two days (seriously, we recognized her voice and kept track, just for fun) because she was worried about her brother (who was 35 years old, and in prison for beating a pregnant woman), including when she asked my clerk if the top bunks had rails, because he was afraid of heights.
I just keep telling myself that my truck will be paid for in less than three years, and then a change in career might actually be possible. Until then, it's deal with the psycho phone calls, or the inmates themselves, and at least over the phone, their families smell better.