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.

The Teething Stage

I’ve been wandering around wondering if I have feelings left to hurt. When I’m alone, I’m almost certain that I’m heartless and soulless.

When you’re in limbo you find yourself with your head in the clouds, or anywhere other than the present moment, to avoid reality. Because reality does bite once it’s past the teething stage.  And what do you know? I have no Anbesol to take the edge off.

Bottom line: I don’t believe in love anymore. I never believed in finding “the one” in the first place.

Hoping this is just a stage, a transition.

Baby steps. Baby steps, I tell myself. With time this confusion will pass. I need to recognize this despite the fact that it seems impossible for me to move on. Obsessing is part of how I was built.

How many times did I endure the heartache? How many times do I look back and say, that was the moment? That was the moment you should have left. There are so many moments, in retrospect, that I start to lose count. But no worries, it’s all written down somewhere. So that when I stumble across it in my wayward travels I experience hell afresh.

I keep stopping to tell myself that the years were not wasted. After all, I was becoming someone, and even managed to create someone. Such a little beauty that seems to represent the best that was ever in us.

You do get to that point where you think you no longer have the capacity to feel. Then the thought of no longer being able to feel , or a memory, or a song on the radio, makes you wail. 

Something New

Currently in search of someone to light up for.

Let me explain.

I drove around this morning to find that this song was not about someone new, but about someone who has been there for the last thirteen years. And it very nearly broke me.

For the past few months, I wanted to be able to feel again. To feel anything but this void that I find myself in. Now I want to be prepared the next time I drive into a pile of feelings. 

Despite the potential consequences to my psyche, despite the fact that I'll probably never be ready, and despite the reality that memories crop up and emotions will linger, I am in search of something and someone new.

I want to know what it is to be appreciated for who I am. I want to drive around singing like a madwoman at the top of my lungs. I want to be weird and carefree for once in my thus-far  paltry existence.  

Perhaps most of all, I want to light up like a fucking Christmas tree at the thought of someone. 

I can’t believe that you would think
I’d never see that you deserve the best (deserve the best)
If you’re afraid, then I’m to blame
I should’ve never let it come to this (come to this)

Sometimes we just have to walk through the fire (the fire)
Just to see once more what has never shined brighter (shined brighter)

Don't say enough, we’re not out of love
We just grew up having to find out that
Hearts go astray, sparks slip away
But I have to say, I still light up for you
For you, I still light up for you

Don’t let the tears undo the years
That got us here we traveled all this way (all this way)
And no matter how we sort it out
Know I’m for sure that you’re the one for me (the one for me)

Sometimes we just have to walk on the wire (the wire)
Just to understand we have never felt higher (felt higher)

Don't say enough, we’re not out of love
We just grew up having to find out that
Hearts go astray, sparks slip away
But I have to say, I still light up for you
For you, I still light up for you

Nobody said it would be easy
We thought we could prove them wrong
And we know it takes more than a feeling
To carry the two of us on
But I still believe in our love
Yeah I still believe in us
I still believe in us
I still light up

[x2]
Don't say enough, we’re not out of love
We just grew up having to find out that
Hearts go astray, sparks slip away
But I have to say, I still light up for you
For you, I still light up for you

On Becoming Self-Aware

Trying to determine your own self-worth is a learning experience.

We all make mistakes, but I refuse to beat myself up over my perceived infractions. I am a rare and delicate creature and given time I will come to understand that regret can sometimes be a good thing.

It is, in fact, better to have loved and lost. But the important thing is not to lose your sense of self. I was lost for so many years that I began to doubt my own existence. It's no way to live. I have recently come to the sometimes harsh realization that I am real. What I think and say matters. I have limited influence over what other people will do, but it is imparative that I assert myself. And that I continue to be myself.

Part of me is music. Part of me is writing. Part of me is my lovely daughter. Part of me is the light of self-realization. Part of me is hope. Part of me is a profound love of the world that I am priveleged to share. Part of me is regret, but day by day I am shedding that part. There is always a new facet of myself on the horizon, and new parts of myself to love.

Change is not necessarily a bad thing: evolution is a necessity if we are to grow as people. I grow by the hour it seems. I grow into things and out of other things, and none of it makes me a bad person. It is the essence of what it is to be human.

And it is time to be forgiving of others who are also ultimately human. I leave you with this beutiful piece by Hugo Wolf, sung by the lovely Jeanine DeBique. 

.
The Forsaken Maiden

Early when the cock crows
Ere the stars retire,
I must stand at the hearth,
Must tend the fire.

What beauty in the fire's light,
When the sparks are leaping,
I stand gazing long at them,
Lost now in my grieving.

Suddenly I remember,
Unfaithful fellow,
'Twas you I was dreaming of
Until the night had ended.

Tears well up and fall
One upon the other;
The day has just begun—
Oh, would that it were over! - See more at: http://www.cingolani.com/2em.html#sthash.o0lsEbAh.dpuf

Every Which Way but Loose

Well those of you who know me well (or read my stuff at all) will be quite shocked to learn that I drove on the freeway the last two days. I must be losing what's left of my mind.

My job is going well. I still find that I need to get out more (some immersion therapy, if you will, to combat social anxiety). The struggle is real, people. And it’s really with people. But I can no longer drink myself into a stupor in order to say the things I’ve been feeling. Time to be as brave in real life as I purport to be online. Watch out Boise, I may even start singing sober again.

Interestingly, all of those years I spent nearly crippled with stage fright, I never thought of having a drink to loosen up. I was too much a perfectionist and thought surely imbibing something before a performance would negatively influence my pitch, among other things. Little did I realize (though it was suggested by one professor) that what I needed for this anxiety was medication. I didn’t take kindly to the suggestion that I needed to be medicated at the time, because I was a young twenty-something and I knew everything. Yes, those of you who knew me in high school and college might readily recognize that my head was, and sometimes still is, stuck up my own ass.

Yet I wonder if they had struck upon this particular cocktail of medicines earlier in my life. What might I have accomplished? I love my daughter and I don’t regret one second of our time together. But I wonder about how my path might have differed if I had followed my preferred professions.

And then, naturally, I wonder if it is too late for me. I’m almost forty years old (though some would argue a tad preternaturally preserved). Can I still do this? Can I open my mouth and allow music to consume me once again? Can I perhaps get back the octave of range I’ve lost? Or was that simply something that was never meant to be?

And then there’s the other art I love, that of acting. I started out in plays because I found it was the only way to speak in public that didn’t involve my stage fright. I became rather good at pretending to be someone else. No wonder, since I wore the mask of normalcy over my illness for so long.

So it’s been fun being a coward and hiding in the shadows. I’m going to start getting out there somehow. Maybe I’ll even end up a geriatric actress in a laxative commercial.

Stranger shit has happened.