Imagine you are at work.
The boss tells you things are just too crazy, and there is no one else who can come in to cover the next shift. So you stay and work.
By the 15th hour, you start to get a little bleary eyed and cotton mouthed, but you are allowed to have the occasional break, snack or meal in the breakroom. You are permitted to use the toilet facilities, but it is only for a limited amount of time. Someone will usually come looking for you and leaving the floor will back up the work or cause an accident.
And since your workplace is a 24 hour operation like most newsrooms, hospitals or 7-11's are you still can't leave come the third shift.
And so it continues, you really should be represented by a workers' union for what you know is a clear violation of US legal code.
You work with the same handful of people and while they are a fine group of people, they get on your nerves. Afterall, you are around them all the time.
Day after day, night after night.
Oh and did I mention? -- they can't pay you.
Slave labor, you say. Although if you haven't caught on by now...
This is my life.
My workplace is my house.
I cannot leave.
When I was younger and covered more breaking news shorties from the field. I thought I'd pass out from the exhaustion. I operated on very little or no sleep and ate rice crackers for meals.
That is what the initial months with a newborn felt like.
I know the whole thing about the crashing airplane and how you are supposed to give yourself oxygen first before aiding those smaller or weaker than you.
My airplane has been losing altitude for about eight years now. I feel guilty and selfish when I feel like I have to get away, but I do.
An occasional girls night out should do, but I need it EVERYDAY.
I have heavy-duty guilt when I feel like I need to escape the people that I love the most.