Managing Not to Feel Guilty

Yesterday turned into a very strange day.

I arrived at the Town Hall late, after dealing with some personal administration tasks. Personal admin is something I neglected for the last 3 years - suddenly being forced to address matters when they reached crisis point, and (embarrassingly) I was starting to receive red bills and unexpected letters from solicitors. Not because I didn't have the money, or the willingness to address the issues; but because I had subjected them to complete neglect.

Why? Because I was spending 50 - 60 hours a week AT WORK.

But now - transformation! Personal admin comes first, and strangely as a result of this decision, all my affairs are now in pristine order. But at 11am all is concluded, and so I determine to buckle down and do some work.

I walk into my dear little department and instantly observe that a colleague is looking extremely strained. It bothers me. I don't even switch on my computer. I very quietly ask the colleague if they are OK. Colleague gives unresponsive and depressed answer. I ask colleague if they need to talk. Colleague says yes, and we leave the office to find a quiet corner elsewhere.

A tale unfolds of weekend upset, stress, depression and extremely troubled thoughts. I am relieved that they are being articulated. They are the kind of thoughts no-one should ever keep to themselves. The colleague has already been to see their GP that morning. I encourage them to accept the psychiatric help being offered. And more than anything I want to reassure them that they should not feel shame. The colleague tells me they are feeling better.

I return to the department. Another colleague approaches me looking upset. They would like to talk. I leave the department with them, and we go and sit in the park. They explain the particular work stresses they are currently under, and how unsupported they feel. I listen and make some suggestions - emphasising that I can only speak from my own personal experience. The colleague tells me they are feeling better.

I return to the department. I get as far as booting up my computer. My mobile phone rings. It is a young woman I know from Support Group meetings who has recently asked me to help her. She is struggling. She is crying hysterically and is deeply upset over something which has just happened. I leave the department, and find a quiet space in the midst of the construction works which have taken over our building. I listen and talk for half an hour. Unusually for me, I find I am practising some fairly tough love.

I return to the department. I do half an hour work. My phone pings with several texts from Support Group friends, and then I get a call from the woman I am supposed to be meeting at 5.30pm, asking me to confirm that our arrangement stands. I look at my watch. It is now 4pm, and the rendezvous is half an hour's walk away. I reply to a few work emails in desultory fashion, then switch off my computer and leave the department.

I walk slowly, taking a route through some green space. I arrive at the gates of the men's prison where the woman who rang me earlier is waiting. We go through the security checks and are escorted onto a wing where over 20 prisoners are gathered in a room. I give the main talk. The prisoners share back. It is an incredibly powerful and moving experience.

I leave the prison. I have a great chat with the woman I went in with. I have never met her before, but we have hit it off splendidly. We arrange to meet in a couple of weeks time at a Support Group meeting. She gives me a lift to my regular meeting.

I arrive at the meeting in time to get a seat. Just as well, as this meeting is now so popular that latecomers are forced to stand at the back. All my sponsees are at the meeting, along with many other young women who are really trying to change their lives. There are lots of men there too, but the women are instinctively starting to group together.

I get home. One of my sponsees rings for a talk. She has a lot on her mind. The phone calls ends at 11.15pm. I talk to Husband for half an hour. And then we go to bed, where I reflect upon the past 24 hours. And I reflect upon the fact that although I have done less than an hour of actual work, I have been paid for a full day.

I guess I should feel guilty.
I should - but I don't.