So it’s a Thursday and I’m at home. I don’t have an annual leave day. I don’t have vomiting and nausea. I don’t have a headache, or migraine. I don’t have conjunctivitis. I don’t have a twisted ankle. I don’t have toothache or gout. I don’t have influenza. I don’t have a nasty cough. I don’t even have a sniffle. I am, in the Australian vernacular “chucking a sickie”. But even as I say it, I disagree. I would never chuck a sickie. I have way too many guilty genes to even contemplate that. To me, a sickie is when you call into work sick, and then go shopping or to the beach. Australians are inordinately proud of the slacker reputation they believe is theirs. But I think it’s born of nostalgia. Once upon a time we might have lived in the world of the Aussie larrikin sticking it to the bosses, but by and large I think it is something that doesn’t exist anymore. In fact, the most recent OECD statistics put Australian working hours amongst the highest in the developed world.
So enough with this preamble. If I am not ailing in body, why am I sitting here in the lounge room with the heater on, wearing comfy clothes which are the closest things to pyjamas you’ll ever see but not as stylish? I will tell you. Although not physically unwell, my mental health is such that I firmly believe it is better for me and my colleagues that I not be with them today. I’m a bit of a natural loner and need people-free time, but more than that I suffer a bit from anxiety. I am always anxious and sometimes this can tip over into a depression, paralyzing me, and even close to tears at the mere though at having to talk to people; of having to respond to harmless teasing, muster up the energy to engage in collegial banter, sit in a meeting knowing I will have to speak at some point, even general chitchat, in fact any kind of interaction with a human being whatsoever. All these possible scenarios of conversations I may be forced to endure at work fly through my head in the early hours of the morning, and by the time the alarm goes, I am mentally exhausted and bodily weary and strangely defiant. I won’t go. I know one sideways glance, one misplaced joke will have me teary (in the bathroom), or worse make me stroppy. I hate being stroppy. I recognize it as being one of my worst personal characteristics and try so so hard not to go down that path. I get stroppy because I can’t confront which is much healthier and blows over quickly. Believe me - if you have a strop attack with someone at work, it takes a good while to build up a good relationship again, if at all. So to avoid this happening, I usually flee. The last time I was at work when I shouldn’t have been, and therefore couldn’t take a joke I managed to remove myself in time and hide. I remember feeling incredulous at my near hyperventilation, and shaking hands. My big fear is that this might happen in front of everyone. And so I say again – it’s better for me to recognize the symptoms and stay away for everyone’s sake.
As I read back, it sounds really slack, but that’s the way we’re programmed to think. I don’t abuse this. I don’t take anywhere near the maximum number of sick leave days available, but I feel my condition can be just debilitating as a sore throat. But of course no one can know that. Tomorrow I will go to work and I won’t be able to say I had a mental health day as a genuine excuse. I will give some bellyache reason. No-one can argue with bellyache.
1 year ago
