Employee Assistance (The Crazy Man)

My work thinks I'm crazy.

My job, like many other jobs, offers a free-0f-charge counseling service for its employees. It's called "employee assistance" which is just a dumbed- down, family-centric way of saying counseling and crisis resolution. It's the kind of place you go to discuss with professionals that stunted marriage, that pain in the ass co-worker, or that broken carburetor that's been bringing you down. By talking it out with smiling, well paid people in a plastic office, you're less likely to bring a chainsaw to work and start eviscerating the patrons. Win win for everyone involved.

When you start a job, you usually get a little brochure during your first week. This brochure informs you that such a program is available to you, and goes on to describes the types of services provided. Typically, they are colored in a non-threatening off-white and feature lots of pictures of happy smiling people and families surrounded by rounded and harmless Arial font. And the average person flips through it, considers the possibility of talking out some things, then gets involved in the day-to-day of the grind and completely forgets this service exists.

To date, I have received three of these brochures.

At three week intervals no less.

And I know I'm the only one who gets them. My inbox is in a stack with everyone else's inbox. I can plainly see what other people have received recently. And it's not like I have to snoop through the evaluation forms and time sheets of others or anything. It's a brochure for Christ's sake! They tend to stand out! This is all getting to be far past minor coincidence. Two of them I can see. Maybe they forgot to give me the first one, and they're handing me a second just to be safe. Perfectly reasonable. But three? No, that's a message.

I will admit, that I am not quite right in the head. I favor a lifestyle that is indeed uncommon, a bit strange to be sure. Perhaps, I'd even go so far as to call myself socially fucked. I don't play ball the way the rest of the mortals do. Call it a lifestyle choice or just sheer laziness, it is what it is.

And I'm okay with that. I enjoy being a bit off. It makes for an interesting life. I'm rarely bored when left to my own devices, and I almost always have a story to tell. But I do admit that with my particular zest for life, being part of the norm is tricky. Dealing with the regular masses of individuals who like being average, has lead to some mixed results. Disastrous even. It's made me the outcast in many circles. The weirdo, the bastard, that guy who brings unsettledness. I stick out in a big way.

But I'm not crazy. Granted, clock towers and heavy artillery have crossed the mind, but I've never actually done it. And yeah, the notion of slamming an annoying person's head into a table while singing Cumbaya has entered my thoughts on a bad day, but doesn't it to everyone? Temptations and frustrations aside, I still managed to stay ahead. I went to college, walked out with a degree. I've held respectable jobs. I haven't taken a bat to anyone's knees. This is socially acceptable. Even with the off tendencies, high levels of testosterone, and the vicious mean streak, I integrate well.

If there was a problem, it's that I'm expressive. I tend to say a lot of shit. I like to bitch and moan about things in the world as a form of therapeutic recuperation. Things like this blog are my zen baby. Burning calories into the nights trying to think up new and exciting ways of telling the stupid people of our time that they suck. It's what I do. But I'm smart enough to know when I can do it. And I know that when I walk into my profession, that needs to stay off. So, I stay in boyscout mode, talking proper, and focusing on what needs to be done. It's my job, so be it.

However, it tends to be a bit off-putting when I need to do this more than I should have to. When dealing with patrons and students, civility is part of the gig. But having to do it with colleagues and coworkers too? Then it gets to be a bit much. I can only sugarcoat so much before my teeth start hurting and I start getting mad. I have limits people, and the day gig tends to push on those limits like poking on a scab.

So, in an effort to try and retain the civility, I go quiet. Shut down and run silent. I've got nothing nice to say and I know it. So rather than blow up in some innocent being's face and tell them what I "really think" about their lame-brained ideas or their stupid optimism, I take a deep breath, swallow my natural tendencies, then walk away to go do some mindless repetitive task far far away. And typically this works, except when these same people start following me. Because, of course, they're caring and optimistic people. And people like this could never leave someone alone, that would just not be nice.

Even when that person is me.

So, I tend to start boiling Elmer Fudd style. Steam coming out of the ears, face turning red, all of that. And naturally I still can't say anything. So, I endure. And when my time is up, I race out the door, pushing people out of my way. I hastily climb into my vehicle and start swearing at traffic. Even if I'm not being cut off and getting all green lights, I'm still swearing. "Thank you very fucking much!" I'll growl. "Hey lady, you're a real nice fucking driver, you know that?" Expletive after expletive fire out of my jaws until I finally feel equalized.

My colleagues clearly can't understand this, so they keep slipping me one employee assistance brochure after another in the vain hopes that I'll take the hint and go help myself. Maybe I'll resolve my drinking excesses, or dabble in anger management, or finally cry to someone about how mommy was mean because she never bought me that G.I. Joe with the kung-fu grip. Whatever it is, I can go bang it out with people who care so I can come to work every day saying "Yay! Let's have fun!"

I don't know. I don't think I need counseling. Sure, there are things I wouldn't mind to get off my chest, and a neutral party is never a bad thing. But I'm not sure I'm doing it for the right reasons. If I'm doing it because I want to do it okay. But to feel pressured to do it so that strangers can feel like you're less of a shit to be around, well that's pushing it.

If there is any serious problem with my work ethic, it's this: I'm too nice. I'm too goddamned polite to the things that irritate me. Rather than tell someone they're a pain in the ass, I grimace then leave. Because despite being an idiot in my eyes, I acknowledge that these dumb fucks have feelings. And I try way too hard, at the expense of my own sanity, to protect those feelings. I'm too goddamn nice, that's my big issue here.

And you know what? It's making me crazy.