Ozzy would probably kick my ass for snatching his talent off YouTube, but I could totally outrun him now.
Facebook is a dangerous place. Not just because it opens a whole universe of stalking, snarking, bullying, and Doocing oneself, but because it's a vessel for all my worst fears. One of these fears is doing nothing with my life.
Why is this embodied in Facebook, you ask. Well, I shall tell you, oh avid reader of blogs. Because by its very nature, Facebook allows users to filter exactly what others see. That means as a friend, I see how wonderful your life is. And it probably is! And I'm not jealous of this. I am a bit ccovetous of your job, however...
One thing I find difficult is seeing how many of my friends have gainful employment, in their chosen fields (or at least with stable benefits packages!), and how this is providing so many new and continuous opportunities. I don't want their jobs, certainly; I want my own. And I apply. Oh! I apply. But it's been six months. And I am depressed about it.
Honestly, when I quote Ozzy (side note: I'm really not a metal fan, this is seemed appropriate. For my next act, I will be biting heads off of Barbie dolls), I am doing so out of desperation. Desperate frustration and that sinking feeling that things will never get better.
Platitudes from friends and strangers alike are not enough to get me through these job-hunting doldrums. And even suggestions don't seem to help, regardless of how many times I apply to suggested positions. The problem, of course, is not simply the never-ending hunt-apply-get rejected cycle. What it really is involves my self-esteem, pure and simple.
Facebook is like a daily facing-down of my ten year high school reunion. And I graduated high school in 2002! What do I tell people I do? For a long time I was cheeky and laughed about being unemployed, cracked a wise-ass comment. After all, not only do I revel in gallows humor, but being silly helps me stay positive. Making other people laugh makes me happy, this is part of the reason many say truly funny people are often really sad - why else would they try so hard to elicit laughter? Even the sound of it warms the cockles. I said cockles, you perv. Anyway, I digress.
I don't joke much about it anymore. My other post, about how much it fucking sucks to be unemployed and have to talk about it all the time, was a little cathartic. I mean, the conversations about my job hunt have certainly been cut down in number and length. What it didn't do what shut my brain up about it.
I wish my brain had an off switch. Or a mute button. Or that I could buy an at-home lobotomy machine off late-night television for seven easy payments of $75.99 (be one of the first hundred callers and get a free barium enema with each purchase!). I recently found out that the average American job-search takes 35 weeks these days. Thirty-five weeks! That's almost 9 months. I could gestate a human being in that time. Or like 40% of an elephant. Or a whole shit ton of mice. (Well, I couldn't gestate those animals, but I think you catch my drift. Hmmm... mouse army.)
I've been jobless for six months. This means I have 11 weeks to fix my shit or screw up that statistic. I just can't help but think how infuriating this is. Why can't I get a job? Am I looking in the wrong places? Am I being too picky? Or really, and this is the insidious part, am I just not good enough?
Ever have a friend offhandedly (possibly accidentally) give you a backhanded compliment? You know, one of those accidental-by-way-of-asshole insulting phrases that you don't necessarily initially register, but later they start eating your brain? I will give you an example.
"Oh, wow, that's a really cute dress for someone your size."
Initially, you're all, "Gee, thanks! I love it, too." And you go about your day, maybe your week, but then, hours, days, maybe even weeks later, you're sitting down to read some Jane Austen or William S. Burroughs novel and you just blurt out, "... for someone of MY SIZE? What the fuck does that even mean?!" And by now it's way too damn late to say something snarky or corrective back, and you just feed your starved self-esteem with negative thoughts. And sure, when your brain needs to be fed, the first thing to get consumed is never pleasant. Like the rice of self-esteem nourishment, these negatives are plentiful and readily available, but they lack nutrients and flavor and only make you worse off in the end. (And garnishing them with shit like soy sauce and ketchup only makes you thirsty.)
I've been chewing on the stale-rice-negatives of unemployment for far too long. Mostly, they are self-developed. There seems to be an endless supply of New Ways to Hate Me in my head these days. I fixate on my weight. I pick fights with Adam. I throw minor temper tantrums when I lose at chess. I skulk about like Miss Havisham on a bad day (sans wedding cake, of course. That said, I do love me some cake. Donations appreciated.)
It's the uselessness that starts it, but it grows fed by something worse: self-doubt. Of all the adjectives that people have used to describe me, the one I always thought and hoped was true was "intelligent." Often, it is the only thing that has gotten me through some really tough times in my history of self-esteem bullshittery. Thoughts like, "I may be a fatty lumpkin, but at least I'm smart" and "They're paying me borderline poverty wages, but I know so much more than they do!" helped keep me going for a long time. Am I embarrassed or ashamed of my mentally-driven conceit? Sometimes. I don't know everything. I don't even know a lot. But I always knew I was, at the very least, smarter than the average bear. So why am I reduced to stealing pick-a-nic baskets these days? Hey, Booboo?
I don't joke much about it anymore. My other post, about how much it fucking sucks to be unemployed and have to talk about it all the time, was a little cathartic. I mean, the conversations about my job hunt have certainly been cut down in number and length. What it didn't do what shut my brain up about it.
I wish my brain had an off switch. Or a mute button. Or that I could buy an at-home lobotomy machine off late-night television for seven easy payments of $75.99 (be one of the first hundred callers and get a free barium enema with each purchase!). I recently found out that the average American job-search takes 35 weeks these days. Thirty-five weeks! That's almost 9 months. I could gestate a human being in that time. Or like 40% of an elephant. Or a whole shit ton of mice. (Well, I couldn't gestate those animals, but I think you catch my drift. Hmmm... mouse army.)
I've been jobless for six months. This means I have 11 weeks to fix my shit or screw up that statistic. I just can't help but think how infuriating this is. Why can't I get a job? Am I looking in the wrong places? Am I being too picky? Or really, and this is the insidious part, am I just not good enough?
Ever have a friend offhandedly (possibly accidentally) give you a backhanded compliment? You know, one of those accidental-by-way-of-asshole insulting phrases that you don't necessarily initially register, but later they start eating your brain? I will give you an example.
"Oh, wow, that's a really cute dress for someone your size."
Initially, you're all, "Gee, thanks! I love it, too." And you go about your day, maybe your week, but then, hours, days, maybe even weeks later, you're sitting down to read some Jane Austen or William S. Burroughs novel and you just blurt out, "... for someone of MY SIZE? What the fuck does that even mean?!" And by now it's way too damn late to say something snarky or corrective back, and you just feed your starved self-esteem with negative thoughts. And sure, when your brain needs to be fed, the first thing to get consumed is never pleasant. Like the rice of self-esteem nourishment, these negatives are plentiful and readily available, but they lack nutrients and flavor and only make you worse off in the end. (And garnishing them with shit like soy sauce and ketchup only makes you thirsty.)
I've been chewing on the stale-rice-negatives of unemployment for far too long. Mostly, they are self-developed. There seems to be an endless supply of New Ways to Hate Me in my head these days. I fixate on my weight. I pick fights with Adam. I throw minor temper tantrums when I lose at chess. I skulk about like Miss Havisham on a bad day (sans wedding cake, of course. That said, I do love me some cake. Donations appreciated.)
It's the uselessness that starts it, but it grows fed by something worse: self-doubt. Of all the adjectives that people have used to describe me, the one I always thought and hoped was true was "intelligent." Often, it is the only thing that has gotten me through some really tough times in my history of self-esteem bullshittery. Thoughts like, "I may be a fatty lumpkin, but at least I'm smart" and "They're paying me borderline poverty wages, but I know so much more than they do!" helped keep me going for a long time. Am I embarrassed or ashamed of my mentally-driven conceit? Sometimes. I don't know everything. I don't even know a lot. But I always knew I was, at the very least, smarter than the average bear. So why am I reduced to stealing pick-a-nic baskets these days? Hey, Booboo?
No comments:
Post a Comment