Shelter...

I don't know about anyone else, but most days I hate my job. I would SO rather be doing fun stuff like crocheting or climbing in bed in my jammie's to read a good book, heck, I'd rather be exercising than working at the shelter, and that says a LOT!
Working in a domestic violence shelter for almost 6 years now has made me a different person than I was when I started there. I remember my Dad saying that he was worried about me caring too much and how it would affect me. If only that were the case now... I find that I have become quite cynical and numb to just about everything. About 75% of the women that come through our doors don't need our services in the first place, they are there as abusers themselves, toward everything from their children to the system. After a while you just come to expect it and do the best job you can do to get them through their 30 days and on their way so that we can make room for someone else who might actually need the space... 30 days of complaining about chores and or being asked to work on a goal plan, and well, just about everything else under the sun that you could think of.
And then you have days like yesterday. Days when a woman comes in that has been so battered and beaten that if you knew her already you wouldn't recognize her if you saw her. A woman who has suffered from a lifetime of violence targeted at her. A woman that has survived the most horrendous and despicable treatment that you could imagine. And yet, while she's sitting there telling me her story about how she's lost every single thing she has, which isn't much in the first place, I see that she still has love in her heart and her sense of humor has remained intact. She won't allow anyone to help her with anything more than getting up out of her chair, she's strong and independent, she's a survivor...
I came home yesterday and cried for this woman. What is it that makes me think that I have the right to complain about anything in life when there are people like her, suffering from the results of someone else's insanity? How can I sit there and complain about a little headache or being tired when there is a woman sitting in front of me with 2 plates in her jaw and a shoe print on her lips?
I count myself among the fortunate and blessed, there is no doubt... Sometimes I just need reminding I guess...