The words they didn't say

I had a disciplinary hearing this week because my sick leave surpassed trigger levels set by my employer. We talked about how my sick leave the year before was exemplary and how they expect next year to be the same. We talked around and around 2011 but no matter how much I 'owned' my shameful struggles, they refused to say the words. I mentioned my infertility, the marital difficulties, the separation, the miscarriages. They said if I got the flu jab I would not have been so poorly. Have I thought about pressuring my GP to investigate my migraines more? There are other medications. There are more tests.

I sat there in obedient silence, half-smile on my face. They smiled back. Aren't we all nice?

They were still smiling when they informed me about my written warning. Still smiling as they said any further sick leave would result in a second disciplinary hearing. Still smiling as they referred me to occupational health to discuss the merits of getting a flu jab. Still smiling as they said Kid-manager would need to refer me to occupational health following each sick leave, to ensure I'm safe to return to work.

I asked two very good questions:

- What could I have done differently (besides not get sick) to prevent a written warning?
Answer: Errm, [waffle, waffle] nothing? Only mitigating circumstances.

- What would fit the criteria of a 'mitigating circumstance'?
Answer: workplace injury, bereavement, long-term/palliative illness

I nodded solemnly. The door slammed on me as I left the meeting room alone. The tears trickled. True to my word, I let myself be sad. Sad because, as Drew says "We just can't catch a break, can we?" The weights have been piling on me since I was born, but most especially this year, and seriously what else can go wrong? We lose the house? Everyone is abducted by aliens and tortured?

They made the wrong decision. And I'm sad because they don't have the emotional intelligence to realise it. I'm sad because the world doesn't make it easy, colluding so much with our dissociative ways. My silence was handed to me on a platter with every word they didn't say.

It's easier to say Flu than Infertility.
It's easier to say Migraine than Mental Health.

Well, guess what, I want to say infertility. I want to grieve openly. I want to be sad. I want people to see my sadness, because it's a part of me. It's part of me. And I want this part of me connected to the other parts of me. The part, for example, that reduced her hours, increased her work responsibilities, started a new course, worked on herself and her relationship through therapy, and STILL MET HER WORK OBJECTIVES. YES, ME. Even the part of me that is binging to cope with the stress of it all. The part of me that longs for her family. The part that gets so easily lost in her fantasies. The part that sees you too clearly. The part that doesn't see you at all. All of these parts, mine. Me.

Lips quivering, I held my head so high the sun blinded me. When I got to my office, I locked the door, took the scarf in my hands and muffled my cry.

I immediately wrote my appeal, on the basis that grief due to infertility is functionally equivalent to grief due to death (if not worse) and should therefore be considered a mitigating circumstance.

Office-manager cried reading it. "I had no idea, Eliza. I didn't know. You've managed so well."

Kid-manager came to my office and apologised. "Are you okay? I didn't expect that decision at all." He looked genuinely sad. "I didn't know, you know, with the letter... the extent of it."

I felt sad. But I also felt good. I felt good about being treated with respect. I felt good about treating others with respect. I felt good about bearing bad news with such grace. I felt good about my sensible, well-written appeal. I felt good about remaining grounded the entire time. I felt good about containing my sadness.

"I'm impressed by the letter. Given how quickly you wrote it, I would've expected it to be less calm." Kid-manager looked at me in wonder, as I sat there, hands folded in my lap, listening patiently. Not dissociated. Not depressed. Just sad. Sad and still hopeful. Sad and still able to feel other things.

I sighed. "It doesn't feel good. It feels like a kick while I'm down, to be honest." I looked away. "But when you compare it to the other losses I've had this year, there is.. well." My mind flashed with grief, and the pain leaked through my lips. "There is no comparison."

I breathed the memories out. I breathed today in.

"Mostly, I'm worried about Colleague. It was hard for me and it will be 100x harder for her. She'll need support." I gazed at Kid-manager intently. He was always looking somewhere else. We talked some more. He left.

At the end of the day, I went to his office and said "Thank you." I paused, looking at his face transform. "For the help today." I meant it. I was never afraid of a written warning; I was afraid of my own shame. But I found none. Only compassion.

I expected worse from a Narcissistic Boss-man and an HR Professional. Kid-manager expected better. It was written all over him, that sadness turning inwards. Not enough. His eyes said he wasn't enough. "I don't think I was much help."

And my sadness grew to include his.