Escape?

Awake. Naturally. Because I don’t work until 4pm.

Want to find a full time job. But it’s rough out there when you’ve been out of the workforce for ten years, despite having a degree…in the arts. I often joke that I majored in voice but then added a theatre major to have “something to fall back on.” I almost pulled off a 4.0, but the truth is that it was so long ago and far away that no one cares much.

It’s also difficult to find something livable when you have been diagnosed with three anxiety disorders, including social anxiety disorder (appropriately acronym: SAD). This particular disorder makes life in general a living hell at times. My shrink wonders why I would choose a job that focuses mainly on customer service. I thought it was akin to taking allergy shots: mass exposure to the allergen would desensitize me. Make me more like a regular human being. Person after person, I would grow to understand that we are all human, and that in turn I could somehow relax when encountering fellow human beings.

I wish that were the case. I was, in the opinion of one customer, “shaking like a leaf” the other day. He accused me of perhaps being on drugs because I mentioned I hadn’t slept the night before. He then informed me that he would have to “come down here and kick [my] ass,” if I was indeed taking drugs.

I’m just going to start telling everyone that I am on drugs, because it’s true. I take these lovely prescriptions to survive everyday life. I have a tremor because of them. When a customer calls me a “ding-dong” for being “nervous,” I’m just going to say I’m on three psychiatric medications. Bet THAT will make them feel at ease.

Because, though I blog about it and about a zillion other people are openly discussing it, mental illness is not entirely mainstream. People tend to pigeonhole you, because people in general are ignorant. I have only told one person at work that I struggle with anxiety. I am afraid to be explicit, lest others should think I am simply “crazy.”

I sometimes work in the garden center. The heat as of late has been 100-106 degrees. Because of this and all the unanswerable questions asked by customers, I think of my stints in the garden as an exercise in purgatory.

On a certain screen at the register, I often try to press the escape button. The touch screen reassures me that “Escape is not an option at this point.”

No exit.

Hell is…other people.

A Positive Note

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't struggling.

Struggling to make ends meet. Struggling to understand my thoughts and my actions when I'm not tethered to another person romantically. Struggling with anxiety, despite the many medications I consider myself fortunate to take.

Despite this, I recognize that I have become a better person due to adversity. I am a far more empathetic and less critical human being than I used to be. Something that would have resulted in scorn in my twenties elicits praise now. I realize more how far we have come in our respective journeys, and for that I am grateful.

So in that spirit, someone disdainful enough to call herself a "former idealist" offers a small sample of the many things I am grateful for.

I am thankful for my daughter, for without her reason is lost, and hope absurdly diminished. She is the truest form of love, and I am forever grateful that I managed to help create someone so wonderful.

I am thankful for family. I was born into a lovely group of folks and we've been known to adopt many others along the way. Some we have lost touch with. Others have passed on. All are important in the formation of stronger character, even those I no longer reside with. How fondly I will always remember my father, his video recorder a bright light in the darkness of an audience at many performances...

I am grateful for so many people who recognized greatness in me at one point or another. My fifth grade teacher, who told me I could be the next Stephen King. Mrs. Rosen, Mrs. Schmidt and Dr. Tynon, without whom my efforts at singing would have remained awkward and obscure. They gave me the strength to let the shy girl shine. I would be amiss not to mention the theatre folks: too many to list, all inspiring. Thanks for telling me to audition for more plays in college, Joe Golden. I learned so much from my fellow actors.

And then there are things that I am appreciative of: good books, crescendos, lack of tornado activity in Idaho. The thesaurus that I so desperately need right now that is stashed in an auxiliary garage in Utah. A rock from my Aunt Holly and a plastic Roo ring form Tess. The skill required to pour a beer with a decent head. The ability to hold a conversation with anyone because you were raised to respect everyone.

But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you, friends and lovers. The strength you've shown and the many experiences you've shared have had such a profound effect on my development. I continue to grow as a consequence or a blessing of having known all of you.

I choose to see even the negative experiences as a blessing.

At least for today, you know. Tomorrow I may return to being a cynical bitch. Insert maniacal laugh, cue music, fade to black.

Repressionism

Up. Had the audacity to have a Pepsi at 6. Duh...

This came out of a cashier's mouth my last night on the job. She's kind of cute on the outside and she knows it: "You wouldn't expect it of someone who looks like me, but I was taking 12th grade literature classes in 8th grade."

The initial phrase was repeated, with self (selfish) affirmation, that not only in fact did she have beauty, but she had brainnnnnnzzzzzz.

You wouldn't expect it. Of the supermodel who works at anonymous department store. Hey, if you were really that smart, wouldn't you keep your conceit to yourself? Or get a job that pays a higher wage? Because that's what I've done, and everyone knows I am the biggest village idiot at said anonymous department store. I do feel bad about leaving, but realistically, I will be replaced by another body, hopefully this time someone more competent. I felt like a number every time I would punch in, Les Miserables ringing in my head: do not forget me, 24601. Look down, look down. You're here until you die...

I may be working until I die at this rate. And as much as I am socially phobic I did enjoy working my booty off. Literally, my pants have started sagging because I lost weight on the job. I also gained a greater sense of who I am, and what I want to be doing with my life.

In short, I need to be performing in some fashion or I will never be happy. That's part of why I moved back, there are opportunities here that I could not find elsewhere. And I enjoy taking in artistic events perhaps more than even participating in them. My friends are also here, and they encourage me. Whether it's an (unrealized) attempt at auditioning for Opera Idaho or being an extra in a short film, the possibilities are right in front of me. I just need to have the courage to reach out.

Courage is hard to come by when you've been diagnosed with three different types of anxiety. Everyday life can be dautnting, and as with all people, I have good days and bad days. But I'm determined to make the good outnumber the bad in any way that I can. Call my foray into retail immersion therapy, if you will. Something that I simultaneously dreaded and needed. Because what is life, besides a learning experience?

You wouldn't expect it of someone who acts like me, but I majored in the arts in college. Even somehow wrangled a decent GPA while participating in various plays and musical productions. That's right ma. I've got braaaaiinnnzzzz. I still sing opera in the car. I geek out over composers. I love theatre and film, and even made the recent discovery that I adore ballet. I have friends who are musicians, writers, filmmakers, thespians, and comedians. I sing, and I act. More consistently, I write.

I am an artist. It's the repressed ones you have to look out for.

Release

It's cathartic when you finally identify the source of your pain.

Years of needless, directionless suffering, trying to fit into a mold that wasn't meant for you. In so much agony and yet oblivious to the cause of it.

Once you finally pinpoint what's been holding you simultaneously down and back, things become clear. And then tears of regret can finally fall freely.

In my younger years I was often prone to jealousy. But I have finally concluded that jealousy is a useless emotion. And someone who would attempt to cause you grief in this way was never worth your time and attention in the first place.

Childish tactics highlighting the inhumanity. And for what? An attempt to inflict more pain. As if the pain of being forced into the chaos of military "normalcy" all those years wasn't enough.

And the old criticisms, always coming from afar. Being told that you are not equal, that you are not a grownup, somehow, some way, you would never be enough. Forcing yourself to be a good girl, even attempting to be normal though you're not wired that way. Still not enough.

Still awful. Ugly.

And you know that though it was and continues to be devestating, you made the right decision. You know that you're in a far better place even though loneliness stalks you. You know that despite the reassurances, you were never meant to be the one.

You know you walked away for a reason. The reason was under your nose the entire time.

And you try to find a way to let it go.

Uniquely Unqualified

Hello. Long time, no write. In recent news, I lost my job this week. I won’t go into detail and I’m trying not to be bitter. But suffice to say that it sucks, hardcore. I already had a lot going on mental health wise so this latest development has raised my stress level considerably. I would love to write and get paid for something other than a content mill, but right now I’m focusing on getting a steady paycheck.

Frustrating as it is, there is nothing I am uniquely qualified for as far as job positions go. I have a background in administrative work and customer service, so I am applying for everything from nursing home dietary aide to Ross store associate. I would like to apply for management positions but there’s this little thing called experience holding me back. My ideal job would be tasks that I could manage myself, such as when I worked as the sole imaging clerk at Norco. But I am nothing if not a former idealist and I know that realistically, the perfect position just isn’t going to fall into my lap.

Then there is the question of writing for a living. Could I get skilled at writing for content mills? I know the pay is crap but at least it would be close to doing something I was passionate about.

Jack of all trades, master of none. So much fun! Oh, and I accidentally signed up for job updates from a faux website so I get updates from “JobVado” and “Bunch of Jobs” every five seconds. It’s annoying as hell. Glassdoor used to be a great site for job resources but now it is flooded with spammers and illegitimate postings as far as I can tell.

On the interview front, at least I am getting interviews, which is more than I can say for my time in Utah. Rejected at Macy’s for cosmetics sales counter girl (not commission based but they assured me that I would feel as though I was on commission. Not a job for the socially phobic introvert anyhow). Then I rejected the offer to work as what is essentially a door-to-door salesman, where the first year’s earnings would be solely based on commission. Nope, I just need a steady paycheck.

Also, the school positions I can apply for are scarce as far as I can tell. I’m in the process of applying for school lunch lady. Can’t you just see it? I can, and it would be during Violet’s school hours which would be awesome. Not sure what qualifies me other than having served a few dinners in my day and the fact that, at one point, I thought I wanted to be a teacher.

So will she get a job? She doesn’t qualify for unemployment so she’d better get something, and fast. Stay tuned folks. And here’s my obligatory YouTube entry to brighten your day:

A Relative Term

We were all doing well until the matriarch fell.

But well is a relative term.

My grandmother fell on New Year’s Eve and broke her shoulder. It’s been a rough six weeks for her, to make the understatement of the year. Watching her, in pain, has one of the most stressful things I’ve had to do. I can’t imagine the kind of pain she’s has endured, especially at the beginning of this journey. I am so grateful, however, that the break was not worse. Because her hip surgery four years ago was so traumatic, no one is sure whether she could survive a surgery or the healing process thereafter.

Because I respect her privacy, I will not go into further detail.

As I sit here with insomnia, I reflect on whether I am well, or whether I will always remain slightly broken. The truth? I’m perpetually in a state of “getting there.” Because the prognosis for my illnesses is a lifetime, I must accept the fact that I will never be completely symptom free. But there are moments. Those moments when I immerse myself in music, or writing, or some other form of amusement, and I am free from the burdens of my illness. Those moments are like winning the mental health jackpot.

I often wonder how much of my absent-mindedness and recklessness is due to my personality, my medications, or my illnesses. I must conclude that it’s a combination of the three. Because for me, as of late, life has been more than slightly wrought with uncertainty. Some of my stressors are of my own creation. Some are haphazard as existence itself. All are wreaking havoc on my state of being.

I tell myself that I am happier. But happiness, for me, has always been fleeting. I suppose I can attribute that to the nature of happiness or the nature of myself.

There is always the question of the span of time. The time from the break, through the initial pain, then through the healing process is as of yet undetermined.  And I ask, was I ever whole? What am I seeking? Must these wounds form an open, aching, necrotic sore? Time will tell.

But time is a relative term.

One Life, and Work to Do

Insomnia used to be a regular pastime of mine. How many hours of my life have I wasted on Facebook, I wonder? I could probably come up with a rough estimate, and one word to describe it: pathetic.

I woke up at 2 this morning but at least I've been somewhat productive. I made a list of the twelve books I want to read in three months, something that was inspired by a vision board I made for work. My employer and I added some steps to facilitate more specific goals. If I really want to be a writer, I need to study the craft. And studying, as it often does, involves a lot of reading. 

Other goals include: filing paperwork, figuring out my whole health insurance snafu once the divorce is official, getting a new social security card, getting an ID for Violet so that I have proof of her status and health insurance, yada yada yada. Mostly a bunch of paperwork looming in the future. Soonest begun, soonest done, as I remember a snippet from a Stephen King novel. Wow, I've actually retained something from reading. I was beginning to wonder.

Also slated is SCHEDULED writing time. Ahem. No more of this four-in-the-morning, whenever-I-get-a-wild-hair-up-my-ass nonsense. If I ever expect to finish the mental illness autobiography I need to work a it. If I ever expect to have a loyal blog readership golly gee, I'm going to have to WORK. After all, life is work. So I need to get busy living.

And then there's this whole...getting out there...thing. I've been in a monogamous relationship for thirteen years. I am a sweet (ha ha ha), loyal girl, faithful to a fault. Sure, I think about putting myself out there, and I dream about putting myself out there, I verbalize that I want to get out there but...eh? Hasn't happened yet. I also have no idea how to survive in this weird hookup culture they seem to have going on these days. Maybe I'm antiquated. Should I get with the times? Because I tend to obsess about oh, say, feelings, maybe I shouldn't. But there I go, thinking again.

Speaking of thinking, I had waaaaaaaaayyyyyyy too much coffee yesterday, which explains why I'm still up and my brain seems to be going a mile a minute. I need to start limiting myself to two hopelessly sad cups a day. Addictions, addictions. They are not a joke. And as fun as cutting out Facebook and coffee cold turkey would undoubtedly be, it probably isn't going to happen. Baby steps. Weaning process. All that jazz.

Obligatory transition. Just kidding, I don't need one. One of my healthy goals is to do things I find terrifying. This includes, but is not limited to: freeway driving for long distances, phone conversations (aaaaaaaaiiiiiiieeee), making more left turns in traffic, meeting new people. I just tried something new, negating my perfectionistic tendencies: I am blogging from my iPad. And I'm going to stop without looking for typos or editing. Because life is short, and the time before my alarm goes off is considerably shorter. So to all of you in reader-land, I bid you good morning.

Make it a memorable day.