My life–so far as my work-life, that is–sucks. Like a black hole. It’s eating my brain, destroying my soul, making me hate myself and all the people I talk to. What I do…it’s like my job is a dementor: happiness, life, hope? Sucked away, leaving you cold and despairing.
I’m a yo-yo, of this I am aware. When things go well here, I’m great. When things go wrong (and they’re going pretty damn wrong, ATM)–well, I end up like I am right now. I’m so lost, so hopeless, so freaking desperate…I can’t begin to explain.
Good God, I hate this place. I hate the calls, the hold music, the constant emails reminding everyone to SMILE AND BE HAPPY because customers HEAR IT IN YOUR VOICE! and all that other BS that gets stuffed down our throats every effing day. I hate stupid people. I hate trying to explain basic concepts that my SIX YEAR OLD gets, but grown adults whine and bitch about because it’s so complicated. I spend eight, ten, fifteen minutes explaining “yes, you pay your deductible” and watching that timer go up and up and up, knowing I’m not meeting goal and I’m going to get yanked back to working in Greensboro because I can’t meet my goals.
My dream conversation:
Do you drive a car? Yes? Do you have auto insurance? Oh, you do. Good! Now, remember that nasty little thing called a “deductible”? You know, that thing you have to pay if you hit a mailbox or your wife busts out your windshield when you forget the trash AGAIN or your kid joyrides it into a culvert? Ah, you do. And you remember that YOU have to pay that before the insurance company pays to fix your precious tank–I mean SUV? FABULOUS. So glad you remembered. Well, here’s a little hint–your medical deductible works the same way! It’s the SAME THING. Not a homonym, like “hair” and “hare”, which sound alike, but are vastly different things. Here, it’s spelled the same, sounds the same, and works the same way. ISN’T THAT EFFING AMAZING? See, I told you that you could understand simple things! Have a cookie.
I want out. I want to do something–anything–that doesn’t suck the life out of me. …Except, I’m thirty-three. My “career” is this. Only this. It’s all I know, sadly enough. No one wants to hire someone so green at my age, start her out and still pay her enough where she can make her bills.
And writing? Let’s not joke any longer. I’m no writer. I’m unreliable and unimaginative. My best work is taking other people’s characters and manipulating them in a believable way through a new storyline. That’s not creating.
I’m a hack. A talentless, motivation-less hack.
I wonder, sometimes, if I ever wanted this. Did I dream of writing because I wanted to get those worlds and lives and experiences out of myself? or did I absorb–again, as I always do (just a copy, a representation of something greater)–the dreams of the girls I loved from books? Jo and Anne, for instance. Did Jo March set me on this path, with her sordid tales sold to newspapers, and her darling Fritz reminding her she’s so much greater than that? Did Anne come along, with her “My Graves” and other stories to rival the greatest angsty fanfic available, to inspire me to laugh at early attempts and know–again–that she (I?) was capable of so much more?
Does it even matter? I can’t do it. I can’t put a thought together, nor hold on to one long enough to see it through to the end. I’m…lost. Adrift. Frozen. And I can only talk about it here, I can’t do like my SiL and take off for a “weekend with the girls” and leave my family behind while I go play. I’m here. Surrounded by a mess, and responsibilities, and notes and pages and charts and research for things that I know won’t ever see the light of day, because I CAN’T DO IT.
So. Do I hate my job or myself more? My job. –I hate myself because I know I’m not good enough to get out and into something I love.
ETA: Sweet Jesus, I’m a downer. Sorry about that.