I have not written for a while, but for a reason. I spent most of the last week prepping for Trotcon, and was in Ohio all weekend, and as soon as I got home, I hit the ground running on getting a few commissions done. It's been pretty much non-stop work, with hardly any time for writing breaks. Predictably, this did come with some sleep disturbances, a couple 3-6 AM bedtimes, but evening and late night is often the only time I can work undisturbed on customs for long stretches of time. As the con date snuck up on me, I felt increased pressure to make more and more stuff, and even when I was packing up, I still didn't feel like I have enough merch. Of course, I had brought enough stuff in terms of total dollar amount of merch, but I have to do my best to have the greatest variety possible to offer con goers in order to get those sales.
I was hoping to bring home about $1500, but only manage to rake in 1K. It was good enough to pay the rent for the upcoming month and probably keep the power and internet on... but not much beyond that. I spent my last few dollars trying to enjoy Fiver's birthday and get him a couple toys. Small things, some cars and a toy tool set, but better than this past Christmas when I wasn't able to get him anything. I might do Trotcon again next year. Maybe.
The stress of finances is starting to weigh heavily on me. Jesse is having some financial aid problems, and may not be able to return to school in the fall, so the burden of bills is starting to shift back onto my shoulders. I'm starting to consider work again, just to keep my family afloat. Returning to the retail wage-slavery has crossed my mind already a time or two... It's hard to consider applying for any serious jobs and investing time and energy in interviews I may even have to drive miles out of my way to get to. I still don't feel like I'm in a place where I can emotionally handle possible rejection. If I apply for a job, I really go for it. I pour myself into getting that position, and really get attached to the idea of working there. I get my hopes up very high. While it could help my prospects for landing a position, if it doesn't, it leaves me emotionally drained. When I worked for Family Resources already, I was able to take rejection with stride because I was in a position I was happy to continue working; there was a cushion there waiting when I got knocked down. At least then I was secure. Now, not so much. I imagine driving out to Sarasota or Clearwater for a job interview (again, if I were to even get a call back for one), investing precious dollars in gas to get out there and precious time that might be better spent making ponies to sell on ebay, so that if I get turned down for the job, I feel like it was a complete waste of effort.
We should be able to make it through July, even if we have to just scrape by. Rent is set aside, so that by the time we're desperate again, it'll be time for Bronycon, and I should make a few grand there. It should be a lot better than last year, since I'm working months in advance, as opposed to 4 days in advance like last year, and last year was still pretty good. Then 2 weeks after Bronycon, I'll have the Grand Brony Gala where I'll be selling a lot of retail merch. That should bring in at least another grand, maybe two. We might even take the money and move the fuck up north. To hell with Florida.
Jesse's run into some bureaucratic trouble at school and may just be taking some time off, so it's as good a time as any to make the leap. It would be refreshing to all of us just to get out of here, and I don't feel like I'd be cut off from support networks, since I have a lot of family in Cape Cod. I'd only feel bad leaving my mom behind, and likely with only a month or so of notice. I'd probably leave some cash behind to help cover rent or bills for a while, if I can. Just browsing some of the job listings on Craigslist for the area we'd be staying, job prospects look so much more promising than down here. It's really energizing just to fantasize about it, especially since it is becoming and increasingly plausible prospect. It's like a fresh injection of hope into my life.
Saturday, June 28, 2014
Saturday, June 7, 2014
I Knew Why the Caged Bird Sang... I Just Thought It Should Have Screamed
I tried to watch as much of the Maya Angelou service as I could today, though mothering duties often impeded my attempts. She sounded like such a profoundly wonderful woman to know and I envied the people who spoke of having her in their lives directly. Perhaps it's because I'm still young (relatively), but I don't feel like I have any people in my life who are really that powerfully influential and inspiring. I would love to have someone to personally look up to like that. I think I might have a couple of people who think I am that person in their life, and I confess it makes me question their sanity. Which is really, really unfair, I realize. I just can't imagine truly larger-than-life personalities like Dr. Angelou thought as little of themselves as I do of me. But I wouldn't know. I don't know any larger-than-life people personally. Maybe they did/do. Maybe they're just as crazy as I am, just more successful at it.
My relationship with Maya Angelou is probably not much deeper than most people's. I had to read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings for school as a kid, and my life and social media experience has been sprinkled with various wonderful quotes. I will not pretend Caged Bird was a life-changing book for me - not in the immediate way Atlas Shrugged was - but it was influential, albeit in more subtle ways. When I first read it, I didn't really get it. I did my assignments for it as per my class requirements, but I didn't GET what was so important about it reading it at thirteen or fourteen. Reading about her rape made me feel uncomfortable, her childhood was so surreal, her sexual exploits so emotionally detached. In fact, I recall a distinct lack of emotionality through the whole story, that made the biography seem almost journalistic. I have not reread the book since then, so I don't know how well my initial impressions from a decade ago hold up. I wasn't really sure what to make of it all at the time.
Despite my early disinterest, the story stuck with me. Perhaps that's part of what makes a great book: it leaves you thinking for years afterward, coming back for constant reflection on the ideas and themes and events, such that it's impossible for it to not have an impact in some way. I think I came to really appreciate the somewhat detached voice of the story. It allowed me to experience the story with her, apply my own feelings to the situations. Since she left out so much of her emotional experience, it forced me to ponder: "What must that have felt like to go through that?" She gave enough details that I could imagine myself in her shoes and gauge my own hypothetical emotional responses. And only now am I realizing, her form and style truly allows for exercises in empathy. How conscious of a decision was that? Did she write that way out of a need to just get the story out and shared, did she just not want to delve on her own emotional inner world because it was too painful? Or was it a deliberate artistic decision, was I doing exactly what she wanted me to do with the book? Of course at this point, I'm probably thinking about it too hard.
At the time I read her book, I was very fixated on the titles of stories and why the authors chose it. Unlike To Kill A Mockingbird, another book I was required to read around that time, at no point did she mention birds in cages, either as metaphors or actual things in the world she encountered or reflected upon. I had to put the metaphor together myself. Because of racial tensions and discrimination, her youth, her poverty, her trauma, she was like a caged bird: small, helpless, and trapped. But caged birds still sing, out of, we assume, joy. How can something that feels so trapped still feel such joy in their confinement? At the end of the book, when she discovers motherhood, she finally finds out why.
I got the idea, I understood the underlying inspirational message. I just never really agreed with it. Reflecting on it now, maybe I should have taken the lesson more to heart, maybe I should have looked for more joy in my life when Angelou told me to. Then again, I never really was good at doing what I was told.
From an early age, my mother tells me, I was a crier and a screamer. I was a radically, notoriously discontent baby, and all efforts to soothe me failed. I was not unhealthy or otherwise maladjusted. I was just not the baby she was hoping for. "Your sister was such a wonderful baby, I wanted another one" my mom has told me, more than once. Her hopeful tone drops when she says: "And then I had you." It seems perhaps counter-intuitive in this case that she also tells me I was her "cuddler." Still, I was just not happy. I couldn't tell you what made me that way; I remember my early childhood fondly. I was very active, proud, and tough. My hair grew slowly, and I was mistaken for a boy frequently (and no amount of pink attire would cure this). After moving to Florida at a young age, I dug my heels in to be dissatisfied by principle. I was not happy about the move, and mentally blocked the idea of ever being happy again until I moved back home. At twenty-six, I am still in Florida. Thus, my insanity.
During puberty, I became so passionate about things I felt like I was losing my mind. Sometimes I just wanted my brain to shut off. I still get that feeling sometimes, but as I got older I learned how to temper the intensity. Mostly. I still get pretty worked up sometimes. But whether I'm angry, depressed, or perhaps manic, the problem is always a matter of my intensity.
The past few days, I've felt like I've been slipping into a depressive episode. But for most of today, I've been pretty irritable and snappy. I must confess I think I yelled at Jesse once or twice, over various seemingly minor annoyances. Despite my irritability, I've been able to get a lot done.
I think the irritability started yesterday when Jesse asked me to look at his chest because it was really itchy, and we figured out he had ringworm. This forced me into motion, getting the medical stuff together to treat it and decontaminating where necessary. At first he didn't think it was a big deal enough to treat, but I insisted it was extremely contagious, and I didn't want it, and I didn't want the baby to get it, and we're treating it whether you like it or not, goddamnit. I called my mom, made him take a shower and shave his chest, applied the medicine and dressing, and started washing laundry to decontaminate. I was kind of annoyed with him, both for his lax attitude about it, and for his poor hygiene that probably caused the infection in the first place. But that irritability help me to do what was needed and push back against Jesse's resistance. I was probably unpleasant to him, but I felt I needed to be. It was bad enough it took pretty much all day to get the infection properly treated, with waiting on my mom to bring home medical tape and him dragging his feet to take a shower. The wave of agitation carried over into different tasks, too, like cleaning up the baby's nursery thoroughly, because he had pooped and peed in places that now needed scrubbing (potty training is hell). I collected trash bags and scrubbed carpets. When I sat down at my computer for the evening, there seemed to be a lot more interesting articles online, and my browser was full of tabs in no time (still is).
The agitation carried through into the next day. I wanted to get things done and finish cleaning the carpet and take care of laundry. I also wanted to read more, and was getting more writing ideas. Unfortunately, with the baby interfering with much of the things I wanted to do, I needed some help, and I just wasn't getting it. The baby woke me up before my mom was even up, and when she did wake up and make the breakfast she'd been wanting to make, she left for the afternoon to visit Papa and do a little shopping with a friend. By the time she was gone, Jesse was feeling ill again, and tired, and I couldn't even get him to sit with the baby in the living room to watch him. My agitation turned quickly to irritation as I waited for my mom to get back and help me out. I was (unfairly, even unrationally) mad at Jesse for being sick, for not toughing out his discomfort, for not trying hard enough to help me do the things I needed to do for our family. Of course, these were things I'd been wanting to do for days and hadn't been able to set myself into motion to do. But now, in a more agitated state, it was a little easier to move. I say a little easier: I still struggled somewhat, dreading the task ahead, even resenting the fact I had to do it myself. I yelled a little bit, huffing about shampooing the carpet or having to move load of laundry back and forth. But still, I got things done.
Something that made it easier to start those tasks was that my mom decided to do the dishes, since I still had not done them, and they hadn't yet piled up as badly as before. I had been struggling between prioritizing laundry and the dishes, so when she took on that task, I experienced a relief of some anxiety, and a sense of reciprocity. If she's helping out with the dishes, for all the things she already does, I need to be doing something, too. If I just sit here doing nothing while she works, I'll feel guilty.
I know my annoyance with Jesse was there, but I was aware of it in the moment, I know how unfair those attitudes are, and I hope it was sufficiently muted. I did try to counter the negative thoughts when I had them, but I was still very obviously agitated, and may have taken some of that out on him. I do think I snapped at him about the deplorable state of our bedroom once or twice, as it interfered with me completing some tasks. I said something to him about it, when I noticed he had missed some laundry when he separated it for me the day before, because it was hidden in the mess. I explained it was really frustrating, that I was trying to make sure all the laundry got cleaned so that anything that might be contaminated would be in the laundry, and how his messiness impaired that. I'm not sure how cross I seemed, but regardless, I doubt he listened to me. Because he never does. I could report the problem like a robot and he still wouldn't listen.
I think that's what my anger only ever is: a manifestation of manic agitation. When that agitation does not result in something productive, or I'm unable to do whatever thing I want to do with that agitation, it becomes anger, directed at whatever's in my way. Oftentimes, that gets interpreted as Jesse, whether he is unable, or just plain unwilling, to help out.
But when my agitation is unimpeded, when I "get my way" so to speak, to use a phrase my parents liked to throw around when we were kids, I get a lot done and I feel good. I can be very productive, do a lot of chores and tackle daunting projects. Perhaps that was the root of my irritability from infancy: a powerful desire to do when I simply wasn't able to do hardly anything at all. I just imagine, if I were as helpless as a baby right now, I WOULD be screaming and crying! It would be so irritating and boring and I would not be able to develop all those baby skills fast enough to do the things I wanted to do.
Depression really isn't my default state. I lean into opposition. I don't live under a lot of labels, but I've always sort of identified myself as a fighter. I do not sit back and enjoy. I am not tranquil, I am not peaceful. I am rarely joyful. I am a mover. I push, I pull, I thrash against the bars of my cage and screech in my captor's ears until they bleed. I'm not interested in singing while there's a cage in my way. I want to tear the cage down and raise a rebellion against my imprisonment. I do not find peace and contentment with injustices. I try to burn them down, or burn myself down in the effort.
Today my mom told me everything would be a lot easier if I were on medication like she is for anxiety. "All those things don't matter so much anymore." It sounds horrible. Sure, the dishes and the laundry and the dirty rooms wouldn't get on my nerves so much, but what would that do to the bigger things I care about? Those big, complex ideas and bursting passions and finished projects? Because yes, I rarely feel joy, but I do feel ecstasy. I may not sing often, but when I do, it is the most beautiful song.
The pill doesn't just make the chores matter less. It would make ALL the things I love to think about matter less too. And if the intensity of thought was dulled, how long would it be before I was like her? Unable to cope with the world without pills. Being entertained by shallow-minded memes and video clips of funny animals. Unable to follow a chain of complex thoughts and ideas. Worse! Not even interested in them!
That's the really scary idea of taking medications: having no idea how it would affect all my other cognitive processes. Psychiatry doesn't know what it's even doing yet. It's a science in its infancy. Diagnoses are based on best guesses and a cluster of symptoms, nothing objectively testable (yet). I would have a lot more confidence in psychiatry if we really knew what we were doing with it, but the truth is we really don't know. We're working with best guesses, and right now everyone's just a guinea pig in a poorly recorded trial run. These pills are just Band-Aids at this point, because we are only barely scratching the surface of how the brain and cognition works. When something actually does work, we're not even sure how or why!
I'm not satisfied enough with what we have for psychiatry right now to be comfortable with being medicated. My brain is really important to me, and I'd rather not mess with it if it can be avoided.
My relationship with Maya Angelou is probably not much deeper than most people's. I had to read I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings for school as a kid, and my life and social media experience has been sprinkled with various wonderful quotes. I will not pretend Caged Bird was a life-changing book for me - not in the immediate way Atlas Shrugged was - but it was influential, albeit in more subtle ways. When I first read it, I didn't really get it. I did my assignments for it as per my class requirements, but I didn't GET what was so important about it reading it at thirteen or fourteen. Reading about her rape made me feel uncomfortable, her childhood was so surreal, her sexual exploits so emotionally detached. In fact, I recall a distinct lack of emotionality through the whole story, that made the biography seem almost journalistic. I have not reread the book since then, so I don't know how well my initial impressions from a decade ago hold up. I wasn't really sure what to make of it all at the time.
Despite my early disinterest, the story stuck with me. Perhaps that's part of what makes a great book: it leaves you thinking for years afterward, coming back for constant reflection on the ideas and themes and events, such that it's impossible for it to not have an impact in some way. I think I came to really appreciate the somewhat detached voice of the story. It allowed me to experience the story with her, apply my own feelings to the situations. Since she left out so much of her emotional experience, it forced me to ponder: "What must that have felt like to go through that?" She gave enough details that I could imagine myself in her shoes and gauge my own hypothetical emotional responses. And only now am I realizing, her form and style truly allows for exercises in empathy. How conscious of a decision was that? Did she write that way out of a need to just get the story out and shared, did she just not want to delve on her own emotional inner world because it was too painful? Or was it a deliberate artistic decision, was I doing exactly what she wanted me to do with the book? Of course at this point, I'm probably thinking about it too hard.
At the time I read her book, I was very fixated on the titles of stories and why the authors chose it. Unlike To Kill A Mockingbird, another book I was required to read around that time, at no point did she mention birds in cages, either as metaphors or actual things in the world she encountered or reflected upon. I had to put the metaphor together myself. Because of racial tensions and discrimination, her youth, her poverty, her trauma, she was like a caged bird: small, helpless, and trapped. But caged birds still sing, out of, we assume, joy. How can something that feels so trapped still feel such joy in their confinement? At the end of the book, when she discovers motherhood, she finally finds out why.
I got the idea, I understood the underlying inspirational message. I just never really agreed with it. Reflecting on it now, maybe I should have taken the lesson more to heart, maybe I should have looked for more joy in my life when Angelou told me to. Then again, I never really was good at doing what I was told.
From an early age, my mother tells me, I was a crier and a screamer. I was a radically, notoriously discontent baby, and all efforts to soothe me failed. I was not unhealthy or otherwise maladjusted. I was just not the baby she was hoping for. "Your sister was such a wonderful baby, I wanted another one" my mom has told me, more than once. Her hopeful tone drops when she says: "And then I had you." It seems perhaps counter-intuitive in this case that she also tells me I was her "cuddler." Still, I was just not happy. I couldn't tell you what made me that way; I remember my early childhood fondly. I was very active, proud, and tough. My hair grew slowly, and I was mistaken for a boy frequently (and no amount of pink attire would cure this). After moving to Florida at a young age, I dug my heels in to be dissatisfied by principle. I was not happy about the move, and mentally blocked the idea of ever being happy again until I moved back home. At twenty-six, I am still in Florida. Thus, my insanity.
During puberty, I became so passionate about things I felt like I was losing my mind. Sometimes I just wanted my brain to shut off. I still get that feeling sometimes, but as I got older I learned how to temper the intensity. Mostly. I still get pretty worked up sometimes. But whether I'm angry, depressed, or perhaps manic, the problem is always a matter of my intensity.
The past few days, I've felt like I've been slipping into a depressive episode. But for most of today, I've been pretty irritable and snappy. I must confess I think I yelled at Jesse once or twice, over various seemingly minor annoyances. Despite my irritability, I've been able to get a lot done.
I think the irritability started yesterday when Jesse asked me to look at his chest because it was really itchy, and we figured out he had ringworm. This forced me into motion, getting the medical stuff together to treat it and decontaminating where necessary. At first he didn't think it was a big deal enough to treat, but I insisted it was extremely contagious, and I didn't want it, and I didn't want the baby to get it, and we're treating it whether you like it or not, goddamnit. I called my mom, made him take a shower and shave his chest, applied the medicine and dressing, and started washing laundry to decontaminate. I was kind of annoyed with him, both for his lax attitude about it, and for his poor hygiene that probably caused the infection in the first place. But that irritability help me to do what was needed and push back against Jesse's resistance. I was probably unpleasant to him, but I felt I needed to be. It was bad enough it took pretty much all day to get the infection properly treated, with waiting on my mom to bring home medical tape and him dragging his feet to take a shower. The wave of agitation carried over into different tasks, too, like cleaning up the baby's nursery thoroughly, because he had pooped and peed in places that now needed scrubbing (potty training is hell). I collected trash bags and scrubbed carpets. When I sat down at my computer for the evening, there seemed to be a lot more interesting articles online, and my browser was full of tabs in no time (still is).
The agitation carried through into the next day. I wanted to get things done and finish cleaning the carpet and take care of laundry. I also wanted to read more, and was getting more writing ideas. Unfortunately, with the baby interfering with much of the things I wanted to do, I needed some help, and I just wasn't getting it. The baby woke me up before my mom was even up, and when she did wake up and make the breakfast she'd been wanting to make, she left for the afternoon to visit Papa and do a little shopping with a friend. By the time she was gone, Jesse was feeling ill again, and tired, and I couldn't even get him to sit with the baby in the living room to watch him. My agitation turned quickly to irritation as I waited for my mom to get back and help me out. I was (unfairly, even unrationally) mad at Jesse for being sick, for not toughing out his discomfort, for not trying hard enough to help me do the things I needed to do for our family. Of course, these were things I'd been wanting to do for days and hadn't been able to set myself into motion to do. But now, in a more agitated state, it was a little easier to move. I say a little easier: I still struggled somewhat, dreading the task ahead, even resenting the fact I had to do it myself. I yelled a little bit, huffing about shampooing the carpet or having to move load of laundry back and forth. But still, I got things done.
Something that made it easier to start those tasks was that my mom decided to do the dishes, since I still had not done them, and they hadn't yet piled up as badly as before. I had been struggling between prioritizing laundry and the dishes, so when she took on that task, I experienced a relief of some anxiety, and a sense of reciprocity. If she's helping out with the dishes, for all the things she already does, I need to be doing something, too. If I just sit here doing nothing while she works, I'll feel guilty.
I know my annoyance with Jesse was there, but I was aware of it in the moment, I know how unfair those attitudes are, and I hope it was sufficiently muted. I did try to counter the negative thoughts when I had them, but I was still very obviously agitated, and may have taken some of that out on him. I do think I snapped at him about the deplorable state of our bedroom once or twice, as it interfered with me completing some tasks. I said something to him about it, when I noticed he had missed some laundry when he separated it for me the day before, because it was hidden in the mess. I explained it was really frustrating, that I was trying to make sure all the laundry got cleaned so that anything that might be contaminated would be in the laundry, and how his messiness impaired that. I'm not sure how cross I seemed, but regardless, I doubt he listened to me. Because he never does. I could report the problem like a robot and he still wouldn't listen.
I think that's what my anger only ever is: a manifestation of manic agitation. When that agitation does not result in something productive, or I'm unable to do whatever thing I want to do with that agitation, it becomes anger, directed at whatever's in my way. Oftentimes, that gets interpreted as Jesse, whether he is unable, or just plain unwilling, to help out.
But when my agitation is unimpeded, when I "get my way" so to speak, to use a phrase my parents liked to throw around when we were kids, I get a lot done and I feel good. I can be very productive, do a lot of chores and tackle daunting projects. Perhaps that was the root of my irritability from infancy: a powerful desire to do when I simply wasn't able to do hardly anything at all. I just imagine, if I were as helpless as a baby right now, I WOULD be screaming and crying! It would be so irritating and boring and I would not be able to develop all those baby skills fast enough to do the things I wanted to do.
Depression really isn't my default state. I lean into opposition. I don't live under a lot of labels, but I've always sort of identified myself as a fighter. I do not sit back and enjoy. I am not tranquil, I am not peaceful. I am rarely joyful. I am a mover. I push, I pull, I thrash against the bars of my cage and screech in my captor's ears until they bleed. I'm not interested in singing while there's a cage in my way. I want to tear the cage down and raise a rebellion against my imprisonment. I do not find peace and contentment with injustices. I try to burn them down, or burn myself down in the effort.
Today my mom told me everything would be a lot easier if I were on medication like she is for anxiety. "All those things don't matter so much anymore." It sounds horrible. Sure, the dishes and the laundry and the dirty rooms wouldn't get on my nerves so much, but what would that do to the bigger things I care about? Those big, complex ideas and bursting passions and finished projects? Because yes, I rarely feel joy, but I do feel ecstasy. I may not sing often, but when I do, it is the most beautiful song.
The pill doesn't just make the chores matter less. It would make ALL the things I love to think about matter less too. And if the intensity of thought was dulled, how long would it be before I was like her? Unable to cope with the world without pills. Being entertained by shallow-minded memes and video clips of funny animals. Unable to follow a chain of complex thoughts and ideas. Worse! Not even interested in them!
That's the really scary idea of taking medications: having no idea how it would affect all my other cognitive processes. Psychiatry doesn't know what it's even doing yet. It's a science in its infancy. Diagnoses are based on best guesses and a cluster of symptoms, nothing objectively testable (yet). I would have a lot more confidence in psychiatry if we really knew what we were doing with it, but the truth is we really don't know. We're working with best guesses, and right now everyone's just a guinea pig in a poorly recorded trial run. These pills are just Band-Aids at this point, because we are only barely scratching the surface of how the brain and cognition works. When something actually does work, we're not even sure how or why!
I'm not satisfied enough with what we have for psychiatry right now to be comfortable with being medicated. My brain is really important to me, and I'd rather not mess with it if it can be avoided.
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
Resilience
I'm having a hard time writing now, because I feel like I don't have anything to say, like my mind has gone quiet. Not a boring, peaceful kind of quiet, but the kind of quiet of something just giving up. In moments when I am able to stem the tide of negative thoughts, I can sometimes interpret them as "relaxing."
I did manage to do the dishes yesterday. I woke up (and that is getting much easier, and coming with much more regularity) and asked myself, "Do you think you can do the dishes today?" And somehow, I managed to mobilize myself enough to get almost all of it done, save for a few pots and the last batch that still needs to be put away. Fiver spent most of that time at my feet running around and climbing on things, and didn't want to go play by himself away from me, but he didn't get in the way, so it was fine. I tried to spend the time on the dishes thinking about stuff, but my mind was numb, and had very little to offer. My mom was happy to see the dishes finally done, and Jesse said he had wanted to say something about it, but thought it would sound patronizing. I had to explain to him, I need the encouragement and positive reinforcement, because I have a really hard time motivating myself internally.
My mom keeps telling me about the bills. I don't want to hear about the bills. I can't hear about the bills. I transferred all of my money out of Paypal to pay the rent, and have nothing left. There is nothing more I can do, and I can't stand hearing about the bills. Every time she says something, I try hard to unhear it. I have to accept there's nothing I can do about it, and throw all the faith I can muster into Jesse to figure out how to keep us on our feet for the time being. Because I can't even really think about bills or jobs or income without crying.
I did start dabbling on Craigslist. I sent some emails for some writing gigs, nothing really promising yet. One of them is for a website project that sounds fun, but it will "take a while to monetize" meaning I'd be writing for free indefinitely. I figured I'm writing for free here, and I'd rather work on someone else's project with prompts and direction so I don't have to promote my own material (I'm not egotistical enough to be any good at self-publishing). Today I found an ad for a CPS case coordinator, listed today, which is right up my alley. I have the page open in my tabs, but I don't know if I'm ready to open that can of worms. I would have to update my resume, and I have embarrassingly little to show for this last year. I can't even convince myself that being a stay-at-home parent is good experience, would certainly have a hard time convincing an employer. It also requires 3 years of experience, which again, is infuriating. Every job that requires a degree also requires experience in the field, which I WOULD have had if some idiot at the Sheriff's Department hadn't messed up my juvenile record and caused me to lose that internship for no good reason. I had a hard time after that even looking for another similar position, because I was so nervous about the same thing happening, even though I'd had the error corrected. And then at a job interview, I would have to tell them why I wasn't working for Family Resources anymore, which is... I can't even think about it without tearing up. I don't even know how to talk about it.
When they let me go, they told me they'd be happy to recommend me wherever I might apply, but I haven't had any interviews since then. I put in applications for a time, trying to fulfill the requirements for unemployment, but when the red tape got to be too much, I just gave up. (It's not like they ever sent me the fucking unemployment checks anyway.) It was bad enough, halfheartedly sending my resume out into the void every week, getting an inbox full of rejection emails. Part of me was glad I didn't have to deal with an interview, the other part of me felt dejected about all the copy-paste rejections. I felt so disposable. So useless. Like there wasn't really any place in the world for me, I was not valuable to anyone.
At least while I worked at Family Resources, I felt valuable to them. I devoured all the training information, jumped at any opportunity to improve my skills, and they were willing to invest in me. Most other jobs I've had, it's like pulling teeth to get them to set aside time to train you. You're just a breathing body that can take commands, that's all that matters to them. But there, I was a real resource, and it was refreshing to be valued like that.
I don't even know how to explain to myself how I lost the job. No matter what I wrap the story in, it's still devastating. In watching the recent news on Jill Abramson and her firing, I found her reaction to it heartening, when she talked about resilience in the face of setbacks. She talked about how it was more important to her father to see his kids handling setbacks and bouncing back than to see them basking in success. "Show what you are made of," she said, quoting him.
If this past year is me showing what I'm made of, I must be made of soggy noodles and slush.
I was told, when I lost the job, to tell a future employer that I "needed more time for family" or that I left for "personal reasons." This was something I found really offensive. I don't lie. Not even if it's in my "best interest." In order to make any convincing lie, I'd have to lie to myself first, and I just can't do that. There's a moral barricade, and it is completely impossible for me to do. If I were to do it, I would feel ashamed, I would feel like they thought something worse had happened. I would feel like a phony. I would feel like I didn't deserve a job, even if I got it.
Telling the truth is never pretty. But if I did tell the truth, what would I have to say that was true, but would also still win me the job?
"I see here you worked for Family Resources as a Youth Care Worker, but it says here you only worked there for a few months. What happened?"
*deep breath* "I was told, when they let me go, to tell employers I left 'for personal reasons.' The reason it's taken me so long to apply for any jobs was because I couldn't say that and still pride myself for my honesty. If I had to lie to get a job, I didn't want one. The truth is, a lot of things went wrong. Some of those things were out of my control, some of them I only saw clearly in retrospect. I understand it's not the explanation an employer wants to hear, it's not pretty and it doesn't fit in a neat little package, but that's the truth of it."
Assuming they don't shake my hand at that point and say, disingenuously, that it's been "a pleasure" and "we'll give you a call," I will continue:
"I was eager to work for a company I loved in any capacity, so when the job opened up, I dove in head-first. I was given the choice between a weekday afternoon/evening shift or an overnight shift. This was my first mistake. I chose the afternoon/evening shift because I wanted the shift with more time to interact with the kids, so that I would have more opportunities to develop my skills and interact with them. I was naive about how difficult the job might be for me, and bit off more than I could chew. Had I chosen the other shift, the learning curve would not have been so steep, and I could have taken on more responsibilities as my skills developed.
"Next, my work partner was not an ideal match. Though he had two years experience on this job, his previous partner had ten years. He was knowledgeable about the job, but lacked the skills to manage the large groups of children the way his partner did. This was a skill I also lacked, and I had difficulty learning quickly without a strong model to emulate. As a team, we failed to manage larger groups when they became difficult. We were not able to communicate effectively enough to make up the difference. I often looked to him to lead when I wasn't sure what to do, and many times he failed to rise to that, at times when I felt unprepared to take control.
"I was very good with smaller groups. I connected very well with children on an individual level. Unfortunately, individual children behaved differently in groups. Even if I had a strong rapport with several children individually, if the group became large enough they would be hard for me to control. Four of five kids was manageable, but the shelter's population was often between eight and twelve residents. After a few incidents of groups becoming too unruly, management was forced to let me go.
"I made every effort to improve my skills as rapidly as possible through training opportunities and watching how my coworkers handled misbehavior, but unfortunately the learning curve was a little too steep. I lacked the experience, and didn't have a strong leader to learn from, so despite my best efforts, and the management's best efforts, we had to accept that I just wasn't the best fit for the job."
I don't know how much of that an employer would actually listen to, or if it even sounds good... but it sounds a lot better to me than saying "for personal reasons."
I did manage to do the dishes yesterday. I woke up (and that is getting much easier, and coming with much more regularity) and asked myself, "Do you think you can do the dishes today?" And somehow, I managed to mobilize myself enough to get almost all of it done, save for a few pots and the last batch that still needs to be put away. Fiver spent most of that time at my feet running around and climbing on things, and didn't want to go play by himself away from me, but he didn't get in the way, so it was fine. I tried to spend the time on the dishes thinking about stuff, but my mind was numb, and had very little to offer. My mom was happy to see the dishes finally done, and Jesse said he had wanted to say something about it, but thought it would sound patronizing. I had to explain to him, I need the encouragement and positive reinforcement, because I have a really hard time motivating myself internally.
My mom keeps telling me about the bills. I don't want to hear about the bills. I can't hear about the bills. I transferred all of my money out of Paypal to pay the rent, and have nothing left. There is nothing more I can do, and I can't stand hearing about the bills. Every time she says something, I try hard to unhear it. I have to accept there's nothing I can do about it, and throw all the faith I can muster into Jesse to figure out how to keep us on our feet for the time being. Because I can't even really think about bills or jobs or income without crying.
I did start dabbling on Craigslist. I sent some emails for some writing gigs, nothing really promising yet. One of them is for a website project that sounds fun, but it will "take a while to monetize" meaning I'd be writing for free indefinitely. I figured I'm writing for free here, and I'd rather work on someone else's project with prompts and direction so I don't have to promote my own material (I'm not egotistical enough to be any good at self-publishing). Today I found an ad for a CPS case coordinator, listed today, which is right up my alley. I have the page open in my tabs, but I don't know if I'm ready to open that can of worms. I would have to update my resume, and I have embarrassingly little to show for this last year. I can't even convince myself that being a stay-at-home parent is good experience, would certainly have a hard time convincing an employer. It also requires 3 years of experience, which again, is infuriating. Every job that requires a degree also requires experience in the field, which I WOULD have had if some idiot at the Sheriff's Department hadn't messed up my juvenile record and caused me to lose that internship for no good reason. I had a hard time after that even looking for another similar position, because I was so nervous about the same thing happening, even though I'd had the error corrected. And then at a job interview, I would have to tell them why I wasn't working for Family Resources anymore, which is... I can't even think about it without tearing up. I don't even know how to talk about it.
When they let me go, they told me they'd be happy to recommend me wherever I might apply, but I haven't had any interviews since then. I put in applications for a time, trying to fulfill the requirements for unemployment, but when the red tape got to be too much, I just gave up. (It's not like they ever sent me the fucking unemployment checks anyway.) It was bad enough, halfheartedly sending my resume out into the void every week, getting an inbox full of rejection emails. Part of me was glad I didn't have to deal with an interview, the other part of me felt dejected about all the copy-paste rejections. I felt so disposable. So useless. Like there wasn't really any place in the world for me, I was not valuable to anyone.
At least while I worked at Family Resources, I felt valuable to them. I devoured all the training information, jumped at any opportunity to improve my skills, and they were willing to invest in me. Most other jobs I've had, it's like pulling teeth to get them to set aside time to train you. You're just a breathing body that can take commands, that's all that matters to them. But there, I was a real resource, and it was refreshing to be valued like that.
I don't even know how to explain to myself how I lost the job. No matter what I wrap the story in, it's still devastating. In watching the recent news on Jill Abramson and her firing, I found her reaction to it heartening, when she talked about resilience in the face of setbacks. She talked about how it was more important to her father to see his kids handling setbacks and bouncing back than to see them basking in success. "Show what you are made of," she said, quoting him.
If this past year is me showing what I'm made of, I must be made of soggy noodles and slush.
I was told, when I lost the job, to tell a future employer that I "needed more time for family" or that I left for "personal reasons." This was something I found really offensive. I don't lie. Not even if it's in my "best interest." In order to make any convincing lie, I'd have to lie to myself first, and I just can't do that. There's a moral barricade, and it is completely impossible for me to do. If I were to do it, I would feel ashamed, I would feel like they thought something worse had happened. I would feel like a phony. I would feel like I didn't deserve a job, even if I got it.
Telling the truth is never pretty. But if I did tell the truth, what would I have to say that was true, but would also still win me the job?
"I see here you worked for Family Resources as a Youth Care Worker, but it says here you only worked there for a few months. What happened?"
*deep breath* "I was told, when they let me go, to tell employers I left 'for personal reasons.' The reason it's taken me so long to apply for any jobs was because I couldn't say that and still pride myself for my honesty. If I had to lie to get a job, I didn't want one. The truth is, a lot of things went wrong. Some of those things were out of my control, some of them I only saw clearly in retrospect. I understand it's not the explanation an employer wants to hear, it's not pretty and it doesn't fit in a neat little package, but that's the truth of it."
Assuming they don't shake my hand at that point and say, disingenuously, that it's been "a pleasure" and "we'll give you a call," I will continue:
"I was eager to work for a company I loved in any capacity, so when the job opened up, I dove in head-first. I was given the choice between a weekday afternoon/evening shift or an overnight shift. This was my first mistake. I chose the afternoon/evening shift because I wanted the shift with more time to interact with the kids, so that I would have more opportunities to develop my skills and interact with them. I was naive about how difficult the job might be for me, and bit off more than I could chew. Had I chosen the other shift, the learning curve would not have been so steep, and I could have taken on more responsibilities as my skills developed.
"Next, my work partner was not an ideal match. Though he had two years experience on this job, his previous partner had ten years. He was knowledgeable about the job, but lacked the skills to manage the large groups of children the way his partner did. This was a skill I also lacked, and I had difficulty learning quickly without a strong model to emulate. As a team, we failed to manage larger groups when they became difficult. We were not able to communicate effectively enough to make up the difference. I often looked to him to lead when I wasn't sure what to do, and many times he failed to rise to that, at times when I felt unprepared to take control.
"I was very good with smaller groups. I connected very well with children on an individual level. Unfortunately, individual children behaved differently in groups. Even if I had a strong rapport with several children individually, if the group became large enough they would be hard for me to control. Four of five kids was manageable, but the shelter's population was often between eight and twelve residents. After a few incidents of groups becoming too unruly, management was forced to let me go.
"I made every effort to improve my skills as rapidly as possible through training opportunities and watching how my coworkers handled misbehavior, but unfortunately the learning curve was a little too steep. I lacked the experience, and didn't have a strong leader to learn from, so despite my best efforts, and the management's best efforts, we had to accept that I just wasn't the best fit for the job."
I don't know how much of that an employer would actually listen to, or if it even sounds good... but it sounds a lot better to me than saying "for personal reasons."
Monday, June 2, 2014
Drag
I think I'll be going back to my usual drag of talking about myself, but because... I don't know. I guess I feel like my brain is slowing down. Like my thoughts are trying to run through molasses and it's hard to even think of words. That active internal monologue that's been running so fluidly since I started writing seems to have gone silent. I started feeling worse last night. I hadn't had any particularly negative interactions online or at home. No fights, no hostilities. I just started to feel dragged down. It didn't help that I hardly did anything yesterday; didn't paint, didn't write, didn't do any of the chores that desperately needed to be done. For a moment I had some self-destructive thoughts that I deflected pretty easily, but the negative thinking manifested itself in other ways, like feeling like everyone else is an idiot, and that sense of hopelessness I'm starting to feel about the state of some of the chores, and even a little about the state of the world (but only a little).
My sleep is good, and in fact I'm getting tired and going to bed before midnight, and today I woke up in the morning hours before the baby. My appetite is fine, but because of the state of the kitchen, and because the cabinets are a little bare right now, I haven't been eating as well or as regularly as I need to be. Yesterday in particular I felt like I couldn't do anything at all because I had so little energy to commit to anything. Even though I ate this morning, it hasn't been enough to take the weight off that's dragging me down. I don't feel like I can deal with anything, and eventually just want to sleep. It's a less aggressive form of not wanting to exist or wanting to kill myself, sleeping through the rest of the day. It's not that I'm tired, it's the appeal of unconsciousness. Although, at the moment, I am legitimately tired, the appeal of unconsciousness is still especially powerful.
I think it would be fair to say this is the onset of a depressive episode. However, it does not seem to be coming on as strongly as usual.
My sleep is good, and in fact I'm getting tired and going to bed before midnight, and today I woke up in the morning hours before the baby. My appetite is fine, but because of the state of the kitchen, and because the cabinets are a little bare right now, I haven't been eating as well or as regularly as I need to be. Yesterday in particular I felt like I couldn't do anything at all because I had so little energy to commit to anything. Even though I ate this morning, it hasn't been enough to take the weight off that's dragging me down. I don't feel like I can deal with anything, and eventually just want to sleep. It's a less aggressive form of not wanting to exist or wanting to kill myself, sleeping through the rest of the day. It's not that I'm tired, it's the appeal of unconsciousness. Although, at the moment, I am legitimately tired, the appeal of unconsciousness is still especially powerful.
I think it would be fair to say this is the onset of a depressive episode. However, it does not seem to be coming on as strongly as usual.
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