I’m about to get very real for a second. This has been a rough time for me. It’s part of the reason I started this blog. I am forcing myself to do things I enjoy, and also talk about things I keep bottled up. But, like most of my posts, Reed inspired me.
I am absolutely certain it is hard to love a social worker. It is a draining, emotional, unpredictable profession. But, Reed does it with a smile on his face.
If I ask Reed why he loves me, one of the first things he will say is “You want to help people”.
I find this severely ironic, as my helping people has been tiresome lately. It’s not just tiresome. It’s been anxiety ridden, tear-filled, heartbreaking, and flat out awful.
On days like today, my desire to help people is the reason I lay in bed until 3pm. It’s the reason all of our clothes are dirty. It’s the reason I don’t cook dinner 95% of the time. It’s the reason I’m not home until 7pm on most nights. It’s the reason I do not want to do anything or see anyone. But, he loves me anyway.
I’ve felt crippling compassion fatigue for the last month, and several times over the last year. I have physical aches and pains from the stress it causes me. It’s something I’m learning to over come, but it takes time to learn those skills. Lately, I come home, sit on the couch, lay in bed, watch YouTube, and go to sleep. It’s a rather boring life for a newlywed couple. But, he loves me anyway.
I am no where near the ideal wife. I hate cleaning. I don’t like cooking. I don’t make his lunch. I don’t do the dishes. I don’t have energy to. You know why? I want to, and am currently obligated, to help OTHER people. And for some blessed reason, Reed loves this about me.
It’s the reason I chose Psychology as my major. It’s the reason I chose the career I did. It’s the reason my back hurts 90% of the time. It’s the reason I volunteer him to help me when I need a couple of extra hands. It’s the reason I can’t sleep and am up writing at 5 am. My need to help people is humbling and exhausting. But, he loves me anyway.
He does the laundry when I’m doing notes, because I got home late or just can’t move. He brings me coffee when I can’t keep my eyes open to work. He washes the dishes, because putting frozen chicken fingers in the oven took the last bit of energy I had. He holds me while I cry about not being good enough to do it all, and never complains. But what’s crazy to me is that he just loves me anyway.
Compassion fatigue is real, and it’s currently a terrorizer in our home. It hurts him. I know. I see it on his face. He hates that I’m so exhausted. He hates that I have no more left to give. He doesn’t get the attention he deserves, but he still chooses me. He will always love me anyway.