I had worked as a police dispatcher for nine years of my life.

It's a career that takes a level of mental fortitude that I don't think many possess.

I used to hate saying stuff like that.

I always thought it sounded so pretentious.

But the truth is, it takes a special type of person to be willing to voluntarily listen to some of the things we have to hear every single day.

Don't get me wrong, the job wasn't always grim, and it even had its decent moments.

I've gotten off decently funny drunk 911 call stories to last me several lifetimes, though the

reality of the job was usually far darker.

I understood that though, and felt that I was more than equipped to deal with anything the job could

throw at me.

I was ready.

For a while.

For years I had answered every call, always able to keep a steady head despite being faced with some horrific

situations, my confidence in my ability to handle the job unwavering, until the final call I ever took as a police dispatcher.

I glanced at the time, despite at the corner of my computer screen, 1143.

I yawned, leaning backward in my chair with my arms extended as I stretched my back.

I had been at the desk since 3 in the afternoon entering calls and

dispatching officers as they were needed which wasn't very often in this town.

I lived in a little port town in Washington, about an hour or so out of Seattle, and though

we weren't without a fair share of crime, our phones never rang off with a hook, which meant

a lot of free time for me. I was always okay with that. A soul-wrenching

as many of the calls could be. Moments of respite were always more than welcome.

...