I told Marsha I didn’t need a mental health day. She looked at me — her face all soft concern, you know the look. Like I was a fragile thing. I just nodded, firm. “No, Marsha. I’m fine. Truly.” Said it with a little smile, the one that makes my crows’ feet really pop. Maybe that helped sell it. Because I’m not fine. I haven’t been for… I don’t know. Weeks? Months? The clients just blur into one big painful blur. Today – three of them. – A young mother, lost her baby to SIDS. Described the coldness of the crib, the ambulance lights… – A man, laid off after thirty years. Said he felt… disposable. – An elderly woman, her husband fading from Alzheimer’s. The slow goodbye. And I sat there. Just… listening. My face probably had the right expression – empathetic, understanding. My head probably tilted at the right moments. But inside? Nothing. A flatline. Anhedonia, maybe? It’s not depression, not in the way I’ve known it before. It’s a different beast. A quiet, dull beast that just sits in my chest. Marsha said, “You’ve been taking on so many extra shifts lately, Agnes. Are you sure you’re not experiencing some compassion fatigue?” Oh, I know the lingo. Of course I do. I’ve been a social worker – in some capacity or another – since before Marsha was born. Compassion fatigue, secondary trauma, vicarious traumatization – call it what you will. It all boils down to the same thing: I’m worn out. My emotional reservoirs are BONE DRY. But how could I tell her? How could I say, “Marsha, I’m 78 years old. My pension barely covers my rent. I’m gigging because I have to. Because I like to eat. Because my old body needs its aches and pains managed with overpriced prescriptions. If I take a day off, that’s a day’s pay I don’t get. And frankly, a day’s pay I can’t afford to lose.” I can’t just… stop. Not now. Not ever. So I put on my best “I’m a seasoned professional who knows my limits” face. Nodded. Smiled. And walked out of her office feeling… nothing. Still nothing. Just the phantom ache of listening to pain without truly feeling it anymore. Is that worse than feeling it too much? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know. The silence in my little apartment tonight is LOUD. I might just stay up and try to find another shift for tomorrow. Or the day after. The gigs are drying up faster than my compassion.