Dear Abby,
I'm extremely frustrated. Continuing my career advancement means giving up my car and living with practically nothing, or I could take a part-time unrelated job to pay the bills, but stifle my career growth. For who knows how long.
I can't do this.
I can't face the fear of losing myself in another thankless dead-end job that barely pays the bills and doesn't help me in the long run, just because I need something now.
If I lived in a bigger city this wouldn't be a problem.
Actually, this Career Vs Job dilemma is a large part of why I can't keep a regular job for longer than a year or so, and another reason why I feel so endlessly frustrated and overwhelmed. It's definitely counterproductive to managing my depression.
The sort of overwhelming guilt I have with my depression means I feel crazy unbalanced over the slightest thing... which makes wage slave jobs extremely difficult for me. I've only ever felt truly suicidal twice in my life, and a majority of what made me feel so wrapped up in the guilt and inadequacy was the wage slave job I had the second time. The first was due to a really messed up relationship with someone I loved who rekindled a lot of my rape trauma. I left because it felt the same as a wage slave job and I finally realized it was okay to want to be happy. What the hell was I doing cleaning houses, anyway?
I have a great work ethic. I'm more than just skilled in plenty of areas that would be useful for many positions related to my career. I'm not into drugs, I have a squeaky clean record. Professionally, I'm reliable, motivated, and I want more out of my work than just pay.
So why the fuck do I have to choose between surviving and making a living?
And why do I have to put my mental health at risk?
Showing posts with label Dear Abby. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dear Abby. Show all posts
Monday, May 3, 2010
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Bad Day
Dear Abby,
Today, I cried in the cafeteria. Actually, it began just outside the financial aid office when I learned the loan I applied for hadn't quite been processed yet, or some such bollocks. I felt it oncoming as I put my hand on the doorknob in the staircase that brought me from the library where I was incessantly pestered by an odd couple discussing ancient mythology and tapeworms (not in the same sentence), and a very bizarre looking person who out of nowhere whispered, "She's ugly." So after being thoroughly disturbed from writing my philosophy paper and grasping at straws over what abstract concepts I was in vain attempting to articulate, I ended up in the financial aid office.
If you've ever had to go to such a bureaucratic corner of the universe, you would be familiar with how strikingly obvious the distinction is between the unfriendly cubicle matrons and the hoards of people trying to disguise their poverty with flashy knock-offs from discount stores. It is rather humiliating to have to be circumlocutious about your very real problems in such an aid office. In my experience, such an honest, humble revelation rarely gets a Have-not such as myself anywhere.
Although, I was very tempted to lose myself in that office, standing at a chest-high desktop having this mean meritocratic woman tell me now after three weeks that it's only her job to hand in the form even though she was aware the last time I spoke with her that I might not be eligible for further loans (that I'm willing, qualified, and need to take) and didn't mention it in the first place.
I then took the $75 that Mike loaned me for my Philosophy textbook to the bookstore where I was told they got rid of all the used copies and in order to buy a new one (usable only for another three weeks), I would have to pay $120.
With all this on my mind, I started to break down. I managed to pull myself together after a moment on the bench, and I figured that I could at least buy myself lunch.
I was very aware of how ridiculous I appeared, crying in the cafeteria while downing half of a deli sandwich and a box of chocolate Silk. I wished I could stop myself, and all I could think of while I was crying and eating my first real meal of the day was how stupid I looked and how I'd have to hurry up and finish eating so I could get to my class on time.
Somehow, I managed to drag myself to class, but I can't help but wonder why the hell I have to spend $120 on a textbook when there are ample textbooks that would adequately cover the same materials and not cost more than $35.
Maybe I do need medication...
But the tea party clowns might eat me (for being a welfare child).
Just some thoughts for today.
Today, I cried in the cafeteria. Actually, it began just outside the financial aid office when I learned the loan I applied for hadn't quite been processed yet, or some such bollocks. I felt it oncoming as I put my hand on the doorknob in the staircase that brought me from the library where I was incessantly pestered by an odd couple discussing ancient mythology and tapeworms (not in the same sentence), and a very bizarre looking person who out of nowhere whispered, "She's ugly." So after being thoroughly disturbed from writing my philosophy paper and grasping at straws over what abstract concepts I was in vain attempting to articulate, I ended up in the financial aid office.
If you've ever had to go to such a bureaucratic corner of the universe, you would be familiar with how strikingly obvious the distinction is between the unfriendly cubicle matrons and the hoards of people trying to disguise their poverty with flashy knock-offs from discount stores. It is rather humiliating to have to be circumlocutious about your very real problems in such an aid office. In my experience, such an honest, humble revelation rarely gets a Have-not such as myself anywhere.
Although, I was very tempted to lose myself in that office, standing at a chest-high desktop having this mean meritocratic woman tell me now after three weeks that it's only her job to hand in the form even though she was aware the last time I spoke with her that I might not be eligible for further loans (that I'm willing, qualified, and need to take) and didn't mention it in the first place.
I then took the $75 that Mike loaned me for my Philosophy textbook to the bookstore where I was told they got rid of all the used copies and in order to buy a new one (usable only for another three weeks), I would have to pay $120.
With all this on my mind, I started to break down. I managed to pull myself together after a moment on the bench, and I figured that I could at least buy myself lunch.
I was very aware of how ridiculous I appeared, crying in the cafeteria while downing half of a deli sandwich and a box of chocolate Silk. I wished I could stop myself, and all I could think of while I was crying and eating my first real meal of the day was how stupid I looked and how I'd have to hurry up and finish eating so I could get to my class on time.
Somehow, I managed to drag myself to class, but I can't help but wonder why the hell I have to spend $120 on a textbook when there are ample textbooks that would adequately cover the same materials and not cost more than $35.
Maybe I do need medication...
But the tea party clowns might eat me (for being a welfare child).
Just some thoughts for today.
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