Where Do I Begin?

First of all, there's got to be more font options than the seven shown to me, in addition to "Default." What the hell is "default"? Rhetorical. No comments or instructions please. 

06/14/2020 was the one year anniversary of me leaving my employer of roughly eight or nine years. Here's a secret I'll share if you promise not to tell anyone: Theirs is a name I do not speak (or type) for fear of getting myself in more trouble with the higher-ups than my big mouth/opinionated, free-thinking brain/First Amendment rights have already gotten me into.

By experience of leaving this employer once before, maybe I should have expected the shit-show my life has been for the past year. I left for approximately six months approximately eight years ago and got into trouble for expressing myself via this same blog at that new employer. I guess unless I choose a nom de plume, I'm always at risk of being reported to the higher ups, which is something I continue to struggle to wrap my brain around. I'm too afraid to say anything more than that in this medium.

I've previously posted about the nightmare moving to Green Bay was logistically, fuck ups with the cable company, the moving company, the utility company. I'm sure sometime after 06/14/2019 I posted about the stress commuting from Menasha to Waupaca, then suddenly commuting from Menasha to Green Bay two days a week (of course not consecutive days because that would've made too much fucking common sense) and continuing to commute to Waupaca on three non-consecutive days a week.

I absolutely loved working at King. Don't confuse that with I loved the work I did at King. I started working there full time on 06/17/19 and was told on 06/21/19 that the King program was closing by 09/03/19 and the focus of all staff was on successfully moving 26 veterans into stable housing. As a therapist that task wasn't in my wheelhouse. 

What I loved about working at the Wisconsin Veteran's Home at King includes the following:

1) A family connection: My Grandpa Porath (paternal grandpa) spent the last years of his life at King & when we visited he'd take us to the three lane bowling alley, show us where the local water skiing group performed on the lake weekly for the veterans during the summer, and the quaint whitewashed cottages where  married couples lived (currently these cottages stand vacant, however the last I heard was that they couldn't be demolished because of their lead paint or asbestos level so they were going to be refurbished for safe habitation). This is the place where my Grandpa Porath died.

2) Watching the veterans fish: Veterans from our Program and other veterans spent hours each day at the designated fishing  docks located behind the building that housed the Post Office, the volunteer office, and the KX. I can't remember the name of the building and don't want to Google it just for the sake of naming it in a rather unremarkable blog.

3) Although trying to find a parking spot close to the building any employee actually worked in was a challenge of strategy and patience, driving around the campus was beautiful. The Veterans Home at King somewhat resembles a small, mid-western or east coast college campus. You need to look beyond the institutional buildings to see the mini golf course, the gazebos, the pure and clear lake-shoreline, the grand Commandants House, the flower window boxes on the cottages, the bell chiming from the Pilgrim-like white steepeled church. Sounds remarkably like Amherst or Holyoke, Mass to me.

4) The other veterans I didn't work with. One thing I quickly learned working on the King campus is that the vast majority of veterans I would encounter showed me gentlemanly respect by letting me cross a threshold before they did, enter and exit an elevator before they did, and greet me with "Good morning" or "Have a nice weekend" before I did. There was a veteran who often spent time on a bench swing right around the time I left work. Minimally I sat down with him once a week and we chatted. He talked about his wife and son who were both "gone with God" and he'd tell me about his wife's funeral right at the chapel across the green space from where we were lightly swinging. Every time I sat down to talk with him he told me the exact same stories. As the time of my transfer to Green Bay drew closer and closer, I told him I was going to miss talking with him after work. His response: "Well, you just think of me here on this swing young lady and I'll tell you about my wife and son someday. My wife's funeral was right here at that chapel" (he was pointing across the green space to the small steepeled church where the bells toll every hour) and I thanked him for his generosity for sharing his stories with me. 
Since I no longer needed to carry a small suitcase on wheels to and from work, I began carrying a large-ish, gray twill shoulder bag with my initials embroidered in burgundy on one side. About twice a week one particular veteran would be sitting outside when I left the building where I worked while I headed to my car. With my initials facing the outside of my bag, he'd call to me, "Have a good evening KS!" I'd wave and call back to him, "You too sir!"  I never learned his name, but I hope that if Grandpa Porath ever offered good night wishes to someone, that person would've sent the same wish back to him. (I have to admit that Rog takes after Grandpa Porath in his stoicism and I really can't imagine my paternal grandfather or my father just calling out well wishes to a complete stranger, but who knows? This scenario is my fantasy.)

That's the best way I can express the blanket of depression I've been wrapped in for the past year. Sometimes it feels as light as a high thread count sheet and at other times it feels as heavy as a lead radiology cover.

So I've begun sharing about work, to the best of my ability while fearing I may lose my job or get officially written up and placed on a corrective action plan which would totally fucking suck.

Anyone know the phone number to the local ACLU office? 😳😳😳