Hiccuping, but not asphyxiating...
I've filed for unemployment. I gave all of my information. I watched Fidget leave this morning. There's part of me that thinks I'm just "off" so I'm running laundry and changing sheets. But I realize that when I turned in my keys yesterday, keys to three different buildings, that it was over. I was done.
I'm trying to be positive. I'm in the position where I'm overqualified and unlicensed, so folks don't want to take me on because the pay grade is too low for someone of my caliber. This is precisely the reason I was going back for my graduate degree. Apparently, I was a year too late.
I woke up this morning with severe left hand pain; of course, because of the stress I finally started to feel. When I changed the voice message to say we were closed. Turning in my keys. Realizing I wouldn't go back to the cafe to get my lunchbag. That it would be the last time my friends brought me home from work because Fidget had the car. When I'm disconnecting a monitor and a mouse that I've had for years. That I'm hugging people I've known for over five years. When clients are crying on the phone because they're more worried about my livelihood than them having to find another provider.
I went to the last hurrah, drank too much sangria, came home, drank more, and promptly passed out around 2130 watching Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 because Fidget didn't quite know what to do with me.
So I filed for unemployment. Maybe all's not lost. Maybe this year will be the year I need to take some time off, be a real housewife of Baltimore County, and focus on graduate school. I'll do my internship, I'll teach. I may do that research. I'll be awesome. And our house will be clean and the food will be cooked, and Fidget will be less stressed out because he won't have to do household chores AND be gainfully employed.
This is not asphyxiation. This is only a hiccup. This will be a story we tell our children when they get a little older and we gather to talk about where we are ten years down the road. It'll be the story we tell our children about how poor we were and how hard we worked in order to make sure they get a great education. This will be a snippet in a long line of ridiculousness that continues to follow me but always keeps me entertained.
There's fleeting thoughts that slide through my brain, like when I clicked on my profile for this journal and saw that I was the one people called. They won't call me anymore. Or if I'm not a crisis worker, then who am I? The title of this journal for YEARS has been "Through the Eyes of a Mental Health Worker." The last time I was unemployed was right after college, but I was bored out of my mind and suffered from Kept Puppy Syndrome since I literally had NOTHING to do. Now, I have classes (I do have a case presentation tonight) and research to work on and papers to grade in the fall. I will stay busy.
If my left hand didn't hurt so much right now, I would probably twiddle my thumbs.
Fail, Starship. You were a crazy little adventure that I went on. I hope your clients find me eventually and that they will find good care. I hope your employees, many in a worse state that me, find work and stability. I hope folks can start sleeping again at night. I hope this line in my CV works for me in the future. I hope I can reflect back on this as a learning experience versus an abusive relationship.
I will throw myself into my internship and classes, keeping this house clean and easing Fidget's mind. We can make it work. I know he's concerned because he's never been this bad off; for some reason, Fidget has had ridiculously good luck when it comes to unemployment or possible loss of housing. I, well, have not. However, I've persevered and made things work and flipped things around. We'll make it work. We'll earn those degrees, and buy those houses, and make all the blinking babies...
... this will merely be another one of my Southern elaborations.
I'm trying to be positive. I'm in the position where I'm overqualified and unlicensed, so folks don't want to take me on because the pay grade is too low for someone of my caliber. This is precisely the reason I was going back for my graduate degree. Apparently, I was a year too late.
I woke up this morning with severe left hand pain; of course, because of the stress I finally started to feel. When I changed the voice message to say we were closed. Turning in my keys. Realizing I wouldn't go back to the cafe to get my lunchbag. That it would be the last time my friends brought me home from work because Fidget had the car. When I'm disconnecting a monitor and a mouse that I've had for years. That I'm hugging people I've known for over five years. When clients are crying on the phone because they're more worried about my livelihood than them having to find another provider.
I went to the last hurrah, drank too much sangria, came home, drank more, and promptly passed out around 2130 watching Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2 because Fidget didn't quite know what to do with me.
So I filed for unemployment. Maybe all's not lost. Maybe this year will be the year I need to take some time off, be a real housewife of Baltimore County, and focus on graduate school. I'll do my internship, I'll teach. I may do that research. I'll be awesome. And our house will be clean and the food will be cooked, and Fidget will be less stressed out because he won't have to do household chores AND be gainfully employed.
This is not asphyxiation. This is only a hiccup. This will be a story we tell our children when they get a little older and we gather to talk about where we are ten years down the road. It'll be the story we tell our children about how poor we were and how hard we worked in order to make sure they get a great education. This will be a snippet in a long line of ridiculousness that continues to follow me but always keeps me entertained.
There's fleeting thoughts that slide through my brain, like when I clicked on my profile for this journal and saw that I was the one people called. They won't call me anymore. Or if I'm not a crisis worker, then who am I? The title of this journal for YEARS has been "Through the Eyes of a Mental Health Worker." The last time I was unemployed was right after college, but I was bored out of my mind and suffered from Kept Puppy Syndrome since I literally had NOTHING to do. Now, I have classes (I do have a case presentation tonight) and research to work on and papers to grade in the fall. I will stay busy.
If my left hand didn't hurt so much right now, I would probably twiddle my thumbs.
Fail, Starship. You were a crazy little adventure that I went on. I hope your clients find me eventually and that they will find good care. I hope your employees, many in a worse state that me, find work and stability. I hope folks can start sleeping again at night. I hope this line in my CV works for me in the future. I hope I can reflect back on this as a learning experience versus an abusive relationship.
I will throw myself into my internship and classes, keeping this house clean and easing Fidget's mind. We can make it work. I know he's concerned because he's never been this bad off; for some reason, Fidget has had ridiculously good luck when it comes to unemployment or possible loss of housing. I, well, have not. However, I've persevered and made things work and flipped things around. We'll make it work. We'll earn those degrees, and buy those houses, and make all the blinking babies...
... this will merely be another one of my Southern elaborations.