I QUIT.

I actually quit my job. Sort of.

It was more like I stopped going, a la Office Space. I really didn't like it and uh, I just didn't go. For the first four or five days, I called in. I went through the time and effort of dialing their 1-800 number, went through all the prompts, connected to my store, and told management I wouldn't be in. They never ask why because there's no such thing as an excused absence; even if you bring in a doctor's note, you still weren't there.

So I didn't go. And a week later when I finally got to see my doctor, she told me I've probably got mild carpal tunnel. She said that if I take care of myself, I won't need surgery and it can heal on its own.

I was so happy to have an answer to something that I drove to Smile Central and hunted down the store manager.

"I need to talk about my employment status. If I haven't been fired, I need to quit."

Imagine all that said by someone radiating energy and joy. I was told I'd been removed from the system and the worst part is that you didn't even call in!

Yeah yeah, whatever. "I'm going to do my graphic design, so no hard feelings?" Still grinning, of course. "I'll just clean out my locker. Bye!"

YES.

At this point in winter I'm usually reminding myself why I should stay alive. Instead, I feel free. That job was sucking out my soul. I worked between 12 and 36 hours per week (depending on their whim) running back and forth pushing, lifting, twisting, and getting lectured for whatever anyone in the department had forgotten to do. I was paid minimum wage, got no benefits, and worked until eight or nine at night, random days of the week and every weekend. I'd get two, maybe three days off per week, but not consecutively, and it was exhausting. I only saw my daughter when sending her to school and putting her to bed, and I was in so much pain that most of that time was spent arguing.

During my week of not going to work, I decided that I could be poor, uninsured and miserable or I could be poor, uninsured and doing something I love. I realize that I will be more poor now, as getting things going won't be quick or easy, but this time I'm ready for it.

This time I'm going to get myself settled as a freelancer instead of caving to pressure to have a real job. Parenthood is a real job too, and it's the most rewarding one I've had. I will work while my daughter's at school or asleep and be home for her all day, rest when I need to rest, sprint when I can, and enjoy the hell out of life.

I'm tired of hoping in silence. I'm going to try hoping out loud for a change.

I have a job.

That's right. Actual, legitimate employment where I'll be going to a certain place every day at a certain time, working, and getting paid for it. It's a temporary security gig until July, but there's a possibility of being hired for a different position after that. And by security I mean sitting at the back door checking toolboxes and receipts while remodel workers go in and out, but I'll get a walkie-talkie.

I finally found a place that doesn't mind my art degree, and I'm taking it, dammit. It'll get me approximately $600 per month and no benefits, but that's four times what I get in child support. (A certain someone quit their job a week before going to court to have child support calculated, then had another job a week later. Bad form, that.)

I didn't tell anyone I had an interview until after it happened, so don't feel left out. In fact, the only two people I ended up telling after wouldn't have heard about it either, except that it was valid information in Obviously you don't want to work, or you'd have a job by now arguments. Because obviously everyone in a small town with no art-related fields is very interested in someone who wasn't born there, didn't grow up there, and went to college elsewhere for graphic design.

But I digress. I didn't tell anyone I'd been hired until after my first day of orientation. That would be yesterday, and a total of four people; the two I mentioned arguing with, my best friend, and my daughter.

I also didn't tell you guys that my sister kicked me out. According to her, what she said was that I needed to get a job by the end of the month and move out by summer, because she can't handle having a kid around all day. According to me, she said (and I quote), "I want you out by the end of the month. I want my life back!"

So I'm living in my grandmother's house in the middle of nowhere again, only this time I have permission to clean it myself. On days I haven't been in orientation I've averaged 3 bags of trash per day. Whenever I'm bored I'll throw together another bag or two.

By trash I mean old, empty envelopes, things too broken or otherwise destroyed to be saved, grocery lists from the 1970's, torn up fake flowers that generations of cats have peed on, that kind of thing. Boxes and boxes of that kind of thing, and I go through every bit of it because I'll find a deed to some bit of land somewhere or a photo of a man in a military coat from WWII or handmade paper souvenirs from 1907 that a teacher made for his 18 students grades 2-5 who attended a local school.

Some things could have historical significance and some things just couldn't.

My father, who is notorious for making wonderful promises that he may or may not be able to actually keep, but wants to keep, told me that if I spent the summer here and cleaned this place up, he'd give me the thousand dollars I need to get into my own house. If I manage to get hired permanently at my actual official job, I may not need him to keep that promise at all, which is a relief.

I'm gainfully employed for the first time since I started this blog. It's no longer the story of someone struggling with unemployment, but no worries. I have more goals to reach. I'm still hoping.

I Don't Believe in Luck

I found a sequin on the floor. That may seem random, but in my mind, it's a little eerie. Let's go waaaay back to the 1900's, when I was in high school. There were some rough times, and I did a lot of praying as well as some tinkering in wicca, and a lot of things I prayed for came true (though, as usual with life, not in quite the ways I expected). I did not live in a house full of glitter and confetti. My mom hated the stuff, and so my tendency to find a piece of metallic confetti in some random shape in between a prayer and something life-changing happening was unexpected. I have a sister, but she's not really the glitter and confetti type either.

I have a job interview in just over an hour, my first job interview in three and a half years. Life has done a lot of shitting on me in the past five or ten years, so no confetti and little luck. It's hard times all around. My family decided that since 13 is supposed to be an unlucky number and we're among the unluckiest people we know, all that unluck would cancel itself out and this could be an okay year.

The first resume I sent out this year, one in the field I want to get into, got me an e-mail asking for an interview two days after I sent it. I found a sequin, recognizably from one of my daughter's shirts, on the kitchen floor not fifteen minutes ago.

Logic says that shirt went through the kitchen yesterday on its way between the dryer and her bedroom, but I don't care, I'm taking it! Random sign from the glitter angels! Confidence!

I'm so sick with nerves that I only slept an hour and a half last night. I'll tell you guys how it goes.

Hire Me, I'm a Liar

I'm about to lie on this next batch of job applications.

I've been searching for two years (with periodic breaks/breakdowns) and the only time I made it to an interview, all my charm and optimism did me no good; I had just convinced the hiring manager that I only wanted to use my art degree for freelance work, but what I really wanted was something steady. I loved Arby's and would be thrilled to be the store manager.

She walked away from me, looked at another application, then asked the man how he would get there every day, since he'd listed that he didn't have a car. He wasn't sure, and he'd never been employed... she asked when he could start.

So, lies and cheating, since the truth has gotten me nowhere.

I'm going to stop listing my Bachelor of Fine Arts. No one knows what it means anyway, and it just makes me sound pretentious. My high school degree, as long ago as it was, will do.

I'm going to combine all the jobs I worked at University into one long-term job. If all you do is glance at the page and I've worked five places, it's got to look bad, but my title was "Student Worker" at all of them. So, from now on, I was "Student Worker" at University for three years. When they ask what I did, I'll list what I did where, and my supervisor can be the supervisor from my final position.

I've tried to keep in touch with people from college. One of my two possible professor references (assuming I decided to list my degree after all, in a fit of insanity) has died, and the other is a hipster, which I'm not saying is necessarily a bad thing, but I admitted that I had a PC in front of him and he couldn't stop laughing. By the way, Macs are for people who don't know how to use computers.

I went there.

One of my close college friends has since decided I'm lame because I was unable to get a job within a month, and because she got married to a wealthy guy and I was apparently a charity project, so I've lost her (good riddance), whittling my contact list down to...

K: Friend in college. Trained me for a week in a student position she was leaving.
Peer: Trained for position as graphic designer at University.

E: Friend. We met while writing role-play for a Harry Potter website.
Peer: Creative writing, group projects, personal research.

H: Friend: Also met role-playing on a Harry Potter website.
Peer: Creative writing... You can see where I'm going with this.

I know, normally when one lies on an application it's to make oneself look better. You want to inflate your own importance, make yourself seem even more valuable than you are. Well, I tried that for the first year, when I was actually looking for Graphic Design positions. However, it's been almost three years, and I just need a job. I need money so that I can stop living with relatives and feed myself without government assistance.

Hey, you say. This is another complaint post about unemployment!

It's about time you caught on. Seriously though, it's a completely different angle this time.

I'm a terrible liar. I can do it on paper, but if one of these places actually calls me in, I can imagine the look on my face if someone said, "You've never had a job, at your age?" I know, it's a hamburger-flipping job and saying That's right, never been employed, I've always depended on the kindness of strangers. *cough* I mean, I cared for the home while my significant other/family member/pet iguana brought in the money is more likely to get me that entry-level position than Yes, I have a degree, but I swear I want to work here, and I'll do a really awesome job!

It's funny, in that way that's only funny if you tilt your head; when I was applying for Design jobs, my friends and family got onto me about being picky. Now I tell them that Pizza Hut sent me a "We currently have no positions which you are qualified for" e-mail and get responses like, Well, duh. That's because you're over-qualified.

My sister tells me (though I already know) that I have to stop submitting my resume. I have a nice resume. The guy from Apple was impressed, though sadly he hated my portfolio and wasn't hiring anyway.

I have several resumes. I have my Design resume, my Clerical/Office resume, and my Generic resume, which states my objective as looking for a "challenging" position. Why the hell does the McDonald's website ask you to upload your resume if it doesn't want it? That's the trap I fall into. I see the "Upload Resume or CV" button, and I have to click it.

But no more.

I have a high school diploma from many years ago, and have never worked. I have low standards, and will take any job you offer me. Speaking of which, do you know anyone who's hiring? I'm willing to move if relocation is paid for.

I'm No Quitter

I did not quit taking my medicine. I do not enjoy crippling depression, despite how glamorous it might seem on the surface to be reduced to a pile of sobbing, third-day-shirt self-hatred for no apparent reason. Not that I don't have several damned good reasons to be depressed, like my car being out of service, being unemployed in a small town and required to search for a full-time job to get food stamps, etc.

So, funny story: My mail goes to my sister's house. She went on "vacation" and holed up in her home with her husband and their dogs, and temporarily cut off all communication with the outside world. Can't say I blame them. Unfortunately, during their solitary week, a letter came for me saying to reapply for my insurance and food stamps or they were cutting me off. I didn't get the letter, didn't respond by their date, and lost my medical insurance. Hahahaha, good one, right?

So I scraped up enough money for two of my three medications, but the third cost $99 before tax, so I didn't get that one. I did, however, get my ass in gear to get my insurance reinstated. What's really funny *chuckle* is that all this coincided with my prescriptions expiring *haha* and my doctor doesn't like to renew them without seeeing me *snicker* but I couldn't afford a doctor's appointment! Hahaha!

Well, my insurance is reinstated because my unholy terror of being left without my medications was highly motivating. Unfortunately, another of my medications expired, and though I  was finally able to get the $99 one (at the bargain price of a single dollar), I didn't take it for a few weeks, so it'll take time to build back up in my system. Because it would be too easy if they were instant-happy pills, which to my knowledge don't actually exist.

Remember I mentioned once losing my train of thought when stressed? I could reread what I've written, but I'm feeling pretty apathetic right now, which is a preferred state, so I'm not going to mess that up. The complete blanking of the mind is a relief.

So one time, at the Career Center, I applied to work at the cheese factory. Night shift. We'll see if they hire me, since I quit last time.

Depression is Depressing.

I am miserable with my life. It doesn't count as suicide if you just ask God to hurry up and smite you, right?

To reassure anyone who thinks this theatrics, I am currently technically homeless, and living with a family member who needs help. This house has been seriously compared to Hoarders by worried family. I live out of a suitcase because my personal belongings, including my bed and perishable food items (which were mistakenly delivered with the rest), are divided between several people's storage units. I hope someone finds the food before spring, though I'm sure that by now it's been cold enough for the water bottles to explode and warm enough for the milk to sour. There are four cats in the house, three of which use the litter box, four in the garage who don't have a litter box, but get let outside sometimes, and two in the back room who neither have a litter box nor go outside. One must enter and exit through the garage, which, no offense to those up above, stinks to high heaven.

My friends live online because those I graduated college with have moved on. I have an amazing phone, a few really amazing friends, and severe, sometimes debilitating depression, as of about fifteen years ago. I used to tell myself that the worst that could happen would be ending up homeless and alone, but I've pushed my "worst" standards to far more horrible things. I am not currently being eaten alive by maggots while impaled in a hole full of spikes and having hail pound into my open eyes. Please, please, God, please, don't use my sense of sarcasm against me and make that happen.

Irony (or not, if you know all the technicalities of the word) is that just over a year ago I was set to graduate college, then move to the Golden State of California, where my daughter would attend a private school for hardly anything, thanks to one of those amazing friends, and I would be nearer the kind of job opportunities I'd dreamed of. My ex questioned me, gave me the verbal go-ahead, and took our flight information so that goodbyes could be said, we got the kid a cell phone for easy contact, got a Facebook so they could chat easily, etc etc.

Sunday before graduation, a week and two days before the flight, yours truly was delivered of a restraining order and a motion to take any and all custody away from me. After a week of locating a lawyer (since if you don't have one, at least here, the case defaults to the other person), during which I didn't sleep and unknowingly contracted pneumonia, I completed no final exams and was given a pity D to graduate in a class I'd been acing. Damned final exams. I don't really remember graduation. Had a high fever that day, and was super-proud that no one could tell how dizzy I was.

Anyway, after bouncing from place to place, I failed out of an attempt at grad school (admittedly a subject I ended up hating) and here we are. The child is tired of moving and living with other people, and despite the emotional abuse she suffers when with her other parent, I wonder if I'm doing any better.

"You should get on disability."

It's really disheartening to be told this, especially following a short speech about not being capable of handling a real job and needing to be realistic. It is disheartening both from one's (ex)friend, and from one's father. There is no explaining to some people that working for minimum wage 5 hours per day, 4 days per week isn't much motivation for someone who feels worthless. There is no explaining that 8 hours a day 5 days a week at a job one loves, being needed there instead of expendable, might just possibly maybe somehow ease the feeling of being useless, and that being paid enough to live on one's own might instill a sense of greatly needed pride, thereby propelling one out of one's dismal hole of hopelessness. And unfortunately, when pressured so much to get a job I've already not been hired at for years, it is difficult to contemplate looking for that big fish. It only makes the whole "not capable of handling a real job" thing all that more real, and the big fish looks like a dried-out goldfish the cat left behind the couch. It was shiny once, but all that's left now is a lost dream.

And yes, this is probably all ridiculous and blown out of proportion, but no matter how I try to correct myself, I can't get out of the mindset that "If you were capable of getting an A, but got a B, you might as well have failed."

I have now been struggling with depression for half my life. It doesn't get better for long at a time. The littlest setback is heartbreaking, and losing a dream that was in my grasp broke me. I've never been as close to hurting myself as I was a year ago, and though I don't intend to—in fact, I intend not to—it can always be worse, and that's what I'm afraid of. If I can hardly cope the way I am, how will I manage another ten years of this? Another twenty?

My depression is being treated, but there's no cure. I've apparently trained my mind to push aside my worries, and so anything that worries or distresses me is forgotten. I don't remember to do laundry when I have the time, nor to job search. If it does pop in, I'm busy, or I'm in a bad mood, or I'm too sleepy to do anything (or so I tell myself), and if I can't fill out an application properly, and better than anyone else, then it was not only a waste of my time, but a waste of the hiring manager's time. I feel like a waste of time.

I haven't blogged in forever because I had no internet access aside from my smartphone, which a friend thought I deserved, no matter that I don't (but it's mine! *clutches and hisses*). I don't even know where I'm going with this. Sudden memory loss in the middle of a sentence isn't odd when attempting to discuss worrisome or depressing topics, either.

Okay, I dragged you all down now, and gave you a taste of a long-term, severe depressive's thought process. I wish I could think of another cheese factory story right now, but since I can't, here:

Margaret Bourke-White. At the time of the Louisville Flood (1937)

It could always be worse, right?

Types of Depression

Suicide Prevention, Awareness, and Support

Changes in the HUD Definition of “Homeless”

Exempt From Reading: A Ranting Post

If I could do so and live, I would tear my brain out right now and stick it in a jar on a shelf somewhere for a while so I could have some peace and quiet. My lizard light isn't pulling its weight, and I'm wary of sitting under 100% power for a full hour, but it looks like that's what I'll have to do in order to stay awake. Still, my brain won't shut off. I could easily fall asleep on the hand-me-down futon three feet away, with no pillow and only a throw blanket to keep warm, but I'm so tense right now that I could scream.

So one time, at the cheese factory, I don't know what the hell the people in the other room were thinking, but they came in with a giant piece of scrap cardboard on which someone had drawn a cartoonish picture of a person mooning the viewer. After telling them they were crazy to spend their work time on such a project, I pointed out that there was way too much butt showing to not add a tattoo. "Do Not Enter" was my contribution.

Back on topic, now that I've calmed some. I'm sleepy most of the time, no matter how much or how little sleep I get. That, in addition to unemployment stress, makes it difficult to hold a solid train of thought, which makes it difficult to keep myself on-track and searching for a job. I got stumped on a cover letter and did nothing for about three days trying to convince myself that I was, somehow, still a competent human being.

Perfectionism can be crippling.

"If you got a B and you were capable of getting an A, you might as well have failed," my mom told me, and though I logically know it isn't true, I still fight it. I couldn't think of anything genius to write in that cover letter, and the immediate first thought, after a few false starts, was that if I set it aside, I'd be able to do it later, when my brain wasn't mush. But my brain continued to be mush, and when I reasoned that a decent cover letter (as opposed to an epic one) was better than not applying for the job, that voice in the back of my head told me that it would be a waste of time and effort, both for myself and the hiring manager, if I sent in a cover letter that just got me tossed in the trash anyway.

Yeah, seriously. I see where the problem in that logic is, but I also see the somewhat twisted point. So, you're the psychologist, here. What the hell am I not paying you for? I need answers, dammit! Solve my problems for me while I'm over on the futon, all right?

Before I go, however, I'll give you an update on last time. I managed the Facebook message and did my best with probing questions, and an attempt at friendship was agreed upon. I was not offered the Trans-Siberian Orchestra on a platter this time, but this weekend we'll be watching a Harry Potter movie or two. From the futon. Which is calling me.

ZZZ Z Z Z zzz z z z ... . . .

Job Hunting

Okay, so maybe I'm not hunting for a job, per se. I am hunting for a Career, with a big C. I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts, and despite the insistence of one friend that I should try McDonald's, I have not done so. Not for pride, though I have plenty of that, but because the last time I applied to a McDonald's, I was overqualified. In fact, I couldn't find a job anywhere because I was overqualified and undereducated, and that's part of why I went to college. Just a theory here, but I bet the addition of a degree didn't solve the overqualified issue in the fast food arena.

Apply for management, you say.

Been there, done that. Arby's took one look at my B.F.A. in Graphic Design and asked why in hell I wanted to be their manager. I smoothly replied that I'd like to work as a freelance Graphic Designer, not full time, because Graphic Designers are known to burn out. I took their million-page Are you management material? quiz, and they hired someone else. In fact, I took the same kind of quiz for Wal-Mart. It told me I passed, but of the three times I've applied there, it's never panned out. So I'm not unemployed because I'm picky or a snob, in case you were wondering.

I've asked people I know if they know anyone, and only one person excitedly said yes. They then sent me a link via Facebook to Monster.com and said cheerfully that they'd gotten their job through Monster, and they'd even had moving expenses paid for. Sounds pretty sweet, right? They get a brownie point for trying. I've been a member of Monster.com for many, many moons. Never gotten so much as a nibble.

I've been scouring job boards. Koda and Talent Zoo most recently, but jobs in the Graphic Design field want 3-5 years of experience (or, in one case, 35 years of experience. Whether that was a typo or not, I didn't qualify). There are internships, but most are unpaid and are looking for undergrads, which I'm not.

This is totally a bitching post, you know that, right?

Meh, yeah, I know. Sorry about that, it's just dominating everything else in my mind. I need to get my online portfolio set up, but it's so overwhelming that I can't seem to get started. That's the problem with being a perfectionist. I have a strong sense of If you can't be the best, then you may as well be the worst that I'm constantly fighting.

So hopefully this will end well for me. I've got about a month to find a "job" and a place to live, and find some way to pay off the hundreds of dollars I owe the utilities that make them refuse to turn on utilities for me at all until I've fully paid. The university is paying for my gas, water, and electricity right now, and since only water comes with the place, they're pretty butthurt that I never put the others in my name. Hopefully they can just take it out of my financial aid, and not turn the utilities off.

So this one time, at the cheese factory, we made balloons out of the latex-free gloves and played ball with them because the production line was stopped. Working the night shift has its perks. And now you can go away happy.