That’s Bert at left, taking a mental health break.
Forgive me if I keep this short.
I’m in a foxhole, and it’s hard to write here.
It’s a familiar foxhole. I’ve been here before.
Steve dug it decades ago, soon after he entered the so-called helping professions.
He was like most neophyte helpers. He roared into the profession determined to give and give, believing the giving would be its own reward.
And for a long time, it was.
So he gave and gave, and then gave and gave some more. Then he collapsed.
It wasn’t a dramatic collapse. He just woke up one morning and found he lacked the energy to get out of bed.
He went to a doctor, who told him he was fine physically. No illness. Just tired.
So he dug this place.
It’s not much, just a shallow mental trench that provides shelter from the bombardment of daily life. A place to crawl into, curl up in, and nap.
Naps, by the way, are wonderful.
If you’re a professional helper — therapist, doctor, nurse, teacher, minister, mom — I hope you have a foxhole.
I hope it’s deep enough.
And I hope it’s nearby.
Which is to say, I hope you’re smart enough to use it.
And if you’re not a professional helper, but a civilian…
* * *
(Yes, I know you know. You need reminding.)