Day Three of being unemployed, and I’ve already got my benefits claim started, visited the local employment office for the intake interview, cobbled together a resume, and filled out two applications. I ain’t messing around. I have no intention of being jobless for a moment longer than I have to be, and not to put too fine a point on things, but right now I’m basically throwing shit at a wall to see what sticks.
This is so unlike the place I was in exactly one year ago, when I was in the middle of that spectacular flame-out that cost me my executive nursing position. The difference is like night and day; then, I was meek and frightened, like a little field mouse. Now, I’m definitely not happy about being out of work, but I don’t feel like a failure and I’ll be damned if I’ll let this define who I am as a worker OR as a human being. I can’t afford to. I’ve got to work at least another 11 years and if I think of myself as someone who can’t hold a job—no matter WHAT it says on my job applications—I’m defeated before I even get started. No bueno.
A year ago, I was bitter and angry at having been kicked to the curb like garbage. Now, not so much. I did everything I reasonably could to learn the job and absorb the massive amounts of information I was supposed to commit to memory, and when I couldn’t do it, the powers that be did what they had to. It was nobody’s fault, and I don’t believe for a minute that the bipolar figured into it at all. If I could have actually done the job, the BP wouldn’t have mattered. Of course, if I didn’t have BP I might have been in a better position to do the job, but now we’ll never know. Feces eventuates.
A year ago, I had no hope. I just knew nothing good would ever happen to me again career-wise; it was over and done and I would stay mired in mediocrity forever. Now, even though the surveyor job didn’t work out, I have the knowledge that I beat out 54 other people for it, which obviously means I’ve got SOMETHING on the ball. Nobody just waltzes into a state government office and gets handed a job like that. I earned it. The fact that I was unable to perform the duties of the position doesn’t mean I’m irredeemably defective; it just means I need to set my sights a little lower and look for work that doesn’t demand that which I am unable to give.
A year ago, I was a hot mess. Now I’m in remission, my head is on straight (once again, thanks to Zyprexa) and I’m moving forward. I don’t know which direction the winds of change will blow, but I’m going to put my trust in God to help me figure it all out.