I can feel myself growing calloused. The people that I am paid to feed, bathe, clothe, and tuck in at night frequently decide that they would like to spit at me, kick me, punch me in my face, try to break my glasses, and repeatedly beat the shit out of themselves. This always forces my intervention, and more bruises for me which I have to deal with, or, heaven forbid, bruises on them, which makes me look like fucking dick.

I start off saying, "B____, it's not okay to hit yourself. Be calm."
A few minutes later, I'm saying, mostly to myself: "Doug, be calm. It's not okay to hit back."

At this point it all becomes strictly professional. I "care" for the people as part of my job description, but sometimes I sure don't give a flying fuck about them. We're not friends. I'm a professional, and they are a client receiving my services. And yet, who's the dependent one? How strange it is, and fortunate for us both, I suppose, to live in a part of the world where their medical condition allows for both of us (and my other co-workers) to be financially supported, instead of it being a lethal liability.