Trapped

I feel trapped in this job. Whatever I do, it is just never good enough. And the people who have to “approve” of my design don’t know what the hell they are doing. I just hate it here. It makes me physically ill having to show up here every day. I am absolutely exhausted after trying so hard to make the best of it. I wish so bad it were Friday.

At the same time, I feel like I am just not qualified to work anywhere else, and that I had better stay here because I have good insurance coverage which I will need in case I have to have one more operation. Part of me secretly wishes that I would get laid off so that I would simply not have to come in here anymore. This is not the rational part of me who considers finances and other “perks” of this job, of course. Everything about it is good except for the actual work that I do. Which isn’t saying much, really.

How do I stay sane by leaving a place I despise each day, only to return home to a place of solitude and chaos (because I am a clutter queen)? That is easy. I don’t stay sane. And it is probably evident within five minutes of speaking with me. I can only imagine what my co-workers think after spending eight hours a day with me in the office.

I about lost it today when Loud Typer was morphing into BeatingTheKeyboard Typer, so I finally said something. It was so annoying because I was trying to talk to someone else, and Loud Typer was banging really hard as if he were trying to get someone’s attention. I looked over at him, watching him being so aloof to the rest of his environment and those in earshot, and asked him, “What are you doing??” He took his headphone out (obviously part of the problem) and said, “What?” I repeated my question and he said, “Just modifying a product page” or something like that. I said, “You sound angry over there” and he did not respond. Just kept banging away. I figured that’s the type of response I’d get.

I feel like my brain is bleeding. I think about so many things at once that I just can’t accommodate anything after a while. I feel under-appreciated, under-stimulated, laughed at, talked about, rejected, and overall disliked by the majority of my work peers (which is really just a few people). It could all be in my head, but that is how I feel. I feel like my supervisor does not trust me with important things and anything he does trust me with, he has to hold my hand through it and double and triple-check everything I do for quality control.

I have become so lazy at this job. I was not this way when I began almost 4 (ugh) years ago. I cannot believe I have spent almost four years here. It makes me sick thinking about it. But at least it hasn’t been 20. If my income and insurance were not so important, I would have left a long time ago. Like two weeks after starting.

Maybe I just need a hug.

 

The Burn

The burn. It woke me up this morning; this weighty feeling in the pit of my stomach, followed by an internal scream that it was only Thursday and time to go to work again. It carried itself from my stomach on to my arms and legs, and then my heart. And then my face.

This was a burn I had not felt in a while. It alternated from limb to limb, organ to organ, bouncing from my brain to another part of my body like a pinball machine. My brain would think something and the burn would follow. Brain, burn. Brain, burn.

By now, I am confused. Then I feel my mood souring. I literally felt the corners of my mouth sag downward. I drudgingly got in my car and drove to work. In silence. No radio. No window down.

I arrived at work and sat in my chair. By now, I was burning all over on the inside. Loud Typer arrived three minutes earlier and was already gracing the office with his over-achievement, which is only masked with either ear plugs or an iPod on full volume.

Soon the burn stayed concentrated in my face, and I must have looked like the saddest person in the office. Notice I said “sad” and not “sick.” By now, you must be wondering if I’d woken up with the flu. No; in fact, I’m healthier than I have been in a long time.

Most of the time, my life of solitude is not a problem. I live alone, I sleep alone, I work alone (I might as well, anyway…. I share an office with non-talkers with exception to Loud Typer/Loud Breather), I work out alone, I drive alone. It is so rare that someone rides in the car with me when I drive, that it actually feels very awkward to me when it does happen.

Then there are the days where I feel the burn. Interesting how “burn” rhymes with “yearn.” It is also interesting that I am mid-cycle which means I have ovulated. Ovulation does a number of things to a woman besides spit out an egg that is waiting to be fertilized by the most competitive sperm. It reminds a woman that she is alone. Ovulation creates a strong desire to be with somebody. Not just sexually, either. And if she does not share this experience with the presence of a partner, she will find a substitute partner that will suit her for the time being.

Every woman has a unique substitute partner that she finds, be it shopping, drinking, drugs, sleeping, or random sex partners. Mine is food. Now I am at the point where I have to decide if I wish to sabotage all that I have been working for these last few weeks just to satisfy this burn that keeps circulating through my being endlessly. The answer should be obvious, but it isn’t easy.

I understand that God created us this way. It was part of His master plan to create the woman’s body in such a way that she would be well aware of when it was time to conceive. Of course He would make it so she is at her peak sexually at that time of the month, that her desires would be heightened, her thoughts would be racing, her body would be relentlessly burning, and her quest for partnership would continue with or without her participation.

But what about when you’re alone? And there will be no conception? No union? No partnership? None of the above?

 

A Great Morning

Today I had my second ultrasound since my last surgery, and things looked really great! I was so excited! I still am excited! The technician told me that “unoffically,” everything looks clear. She even said my ovaries look better than they did last time.

I am so happy that I found Dr. Robbins and was privileged enough to have him do my surgery. I honestly believe he changed the course of my life and saved me from multiple, painful operations and unnecessary medical intervention. How do you thank a person for something like that?

All of a sudden, everything began to look good to me today. I was relaxed as I drove from the medical center to my work. I had my window down and felt the wind blowing on my face. It is sunny and beautiful outside, as if God was smiling down on me as He released me from the grief and anxiety that once enveloped me in the clutches of endometriosis. I surely was not expecting better news than before. At the very minimum, I thought everything would be the same as last time, which was not bad, either. But to be even better?

I think somewhere along the way, I may have forgotten how to process true happiness. There is a part of my brain that releases an automatic dose of skepticism whenever positive neurons are galloping through my vast mental field of thoughts and dreams. When happiness comes along, all of these questions marks are raised. “What is this? Is this real? What do we do with this?,” my neurons ask. My brain isn’t used to it. How sad that a brain can become accustomed to processing cynical, negative information, and when positive information comes along, it is almost like a foreign language being spoken.

I still have the ability to feel happy, however! I still know how it feels to be blessed and given a gift! I feel refreshed and vivacious. I almost feel like calling the doctor now and telling him that he will receive a good report! Maybe I will. I’m sure it is a good day when he hears how well someone is doing as a result of him utilizing his skill and talent.

Here’s to hoping the rest of the week will remain bright and sunny!

 

I Still Remember

Years have gone by, though it seems like just months or weeks – or even days ago – that I lost my sweet Maria. She was one of the most wonderful friends I ever had, and at age 15 I lost her. My heart was broken in two as soon as I’d heard the news. My mother told me as a tear streamed down her face; my mother, a tough woman who rarely shows her emotions, could hardly bear the awful news to her teenage daughter who had just come home smiling and giddy from staying overnight at another friend’s house. I remember the moment, the shock, the disbelief, the sadness, the surrealness, the brick wall that I thought I’d walked into.

Maria and I had been such wonderful friends for several years. She moved to Nebraska in the 6th grade and I bawled my eyes out at her going-away party. I remember as I hugged her, I touched her beautiful, long black hair. I hugged her so tightly that I think I made her laugh. My mom was waiting for me in the car so she could take me to my dentist appointment, and I cried all the way there. On the way home we passed by her house again, and I began crying all over again.

Three years later, Maria moved back to Michigan to live with her father. I was ecstatic and couldn’t wait to spend time with her once again. We were no longer in the same town so I didn’t get to see her as often. I got to make a lot of new friends through her, however, and had such a blast every time I hung out with her. Now I find it hard to extract details from those visits; details that would help me re-live my memories with her and experience such joy in its purest form.

One summer night, Maria was struck by a drunk driver while she was walking down the side of the road not far from where she lived. The drunk driver who hit her fled the scene and hit a deer just a mile down the road. When the police inspected her car after the deer accident, they discovered human hair and that is when she admitted to what she’d done earlier in the night.

The woman went to trial and I attended the last court hearing, and then the sentencing that proceeded. Since she’d been given a plea bargain, there was no jury present at the trial and therefore, it was up to one man – the judge - to decide her fate. The woman was only given 7 months in jail for killing my sweet Maria. Words could not express our anger. By then, I had turned 16 and was still quite young, though I already recognized the injustice that had unfolded before my eyes.

Next week I am turning 29, and every year I wonder what Maria would be like today. Would she be married, have children, have a degree, be living happily ever after? Would we still be hanging out and making each other laugh? It hurts so bad inside when I think of her, and I weep for her. I long to have that friendship back, that girl who always stood up for what she felt was right. She even became stern with me occasionally when I made comments that she did not like. Just a few times, though, and I’m sure I deserved it.

About 1 or 2 times a year, I have a dream about her. I’ve discussed this with her older sister, but I am not sure how she took it. I told her that when I have these annual or semi-annual dreams of Maria, they are like no other. These dreams offer me a world where I see her, touch her, hear her, and laugh with her as if she were still alive. I even laugh in the dreams as I say to myself, “She never died. It never even happened.” I have swam with her in the ocean, walked by her side and have felt the wind blow her hair onto me, and have even felt her hug me tightly. Oh, how it aches to even recall those dreams because I begin missing those as well.

Maria’s mother passed away in 2000 from stomach cancer. I remember she died very quickly; she was diagnosed two months before her passing. I always wondered if she welcomed her passing as a way to see her Maria again. I still keep in touch with Maria’s father. Last week he lost his older sister and also lost his little brother a year ago, as well. He tells me that he wonders who is next. I don’t blame him.

I remember one time, I had stayed overnight at Maria’s house and the next morning we were getting ready to go out somewhere. I was doing my hair in the mirror out in her living room and I couldn’t get it to look right. I said, “No one is going to like my hair. Everyone is going to think it looks stupid.” Maria was standing there and she said to me, “Just be yourself. Do it the way you like it.” I never knew that those words uttered in her living room would serve as the baseline of advice for the rest of my life. It was like she could see into my future, see what kind of struggles I would have; like she’d suddenly had a vision while standing there and was moved to give me the advice that I would need later when….. when she would not be there to tell it to me.

I cry for many reasons when I think of her. I cry because it was horrible the way she died, the woman who killed her is a free woman today, she never got to live past age 15, I miss her badly, I could really use her in my life right now, and I won’t see her again for the rest of my life.  I wish that I could remember our conversations, each word exchanged, each smile exchanged, everything.

Her dad videotaped us on Homecoming night one year and she introduced me on the video as her best friend. I asked him some years back if he still had the video, but he said he couldn’t find it anywhere. What I would give to see that video again, to see her alive and proudly throwing her arm around my shoulders, telling the video camera that “this is Jill, my best friend.”

I have always said that the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life was walk into the funeral home, turn the corner to the right, and see her lying in her casket in the front of the room. Her dad had taken my arm and walked me in, my parents right behind me, walked me slowly towards the front. I saw her black hair first, then as I got closer I saw her face and what she was wearing. At this point in my life, I had not ever lost anyone close to me – not even a grandparent or family friend. I could not stand close to the casket and I felt very scared. My breath was caught in my throat. I remember studying her chest and noticing that it was not moving up and down, that she really was not breathing.

I had written a poem to be read at her funeral, and when I got there her father asked me to read it in front of everyone. I told him I couldn’t do it. He tried to encourage me but I just couldn’t. So her older sister read it and it made me shake hearing my own written words echoing in that funeral home. Her sister sobbed as she read it, and I knew if I’d been up there I would not have done much better. Looking back 13 1/2 years later, I should have been a little braver and tried reading it myself.

They ended up cremating her sometime later. Plans had changed; they were going to bury her in Nebraska but it was too expensive. Since her parents were divorced, they split the ashes. So when I went to visit her dad one time, I saw her box of ashes sitting next to his bed. I picked up the box and held it in my arms. It was heavy – maybe it was just the box – but at least I got to hug her tightly once again (even if it was just half of her).

One of the things I’d mentioned in my poem was that I would carry her in my heart forever, that she would grow with me as I continued to grow. I know that at the very least, I must keep this promise that I made that day. I must live for her, accomplish for her, experience for her, laugh for her, love for her, forgive for her, remember for her.

My dear Maria Elena Hankins (September 25, 1979 – June 22, 1995)

 

No words to describe…

“I’m going slightly mad…. it finally happened….. I’m slightly mad….. just very slightly mad….”

Those are the words I am listening to right now on my iPod. The song is “I’m Going Slightly Mad” by Queen, and the song is a perfect match for my mood. Except this time it is not because I am going mad as in homocidal. Today’s post will be different.

I just burst through a very thick mental barrier this morning. The barrier labeled “guilt” and “inadequate.” The barrier that houses voices who scream obscenities and insults at me every day, telling me I’d be better off not getting out of bed each morning than to go to work and take up space and collect a paycheck each Friday.

No, these voices were silenced for the moment as I realized the guilt is not all of mine to bear. It was an explosion, a clap of thunder, a pop of fireworks as I saw for the first time that it is not totally my fault what has been going on in my life (note that I said “totally.” This means I am not passing all of the blame onto everyone else. But I am surely passing a lot of it).

Then came the explosion. The explosive realization that yes, I am still capable; yes, I am still talented; yes, I am still artistically inclined; no, I did not make a mistake when I decided to enter this field; no, I do not work in an environment that is going to inspire me in any way that I need as a designer; no, I do not work with individuals to bounce ideas off of or who will feed my hunger for connection with brains similar to mine; yes, it is VERY difficult for ANY designer to work in an environment such as this; and YES, I should feel even more intelligent and talented for being able to come up with all that I have done up to this point being that I am in one of the most non-conducive atmospheres to any artist for eight hours of each day.

Oh My God. Oh My God – either You have opened the skies of Heaven and showed me this as I look up to You with tears streaming down my face, or I have finally developed bipolar disorder and have simply entered into manic bliss.  I believe in my heart that being slightly mentally unstable caters to creativity, so either way, God – Thank You for today. Maybe this is just a moment You have given me - a relief from my self-destructive thoughts, the absence of the creative process, the constant guilt – oh, the constant guilt – the inadequacy, the paranoia…. the everything….

Lord, are You speaking to me right now? I believe You are. The song that is now playing on my iPod is “Desnudate Mujer” by David Bisbal, one of my favorite Spanish singers. In English, this translates to “take off your clothes, woman,” (although for some reason it sounds much better in Spanish). This song talks about infidelity and giving in to temptation and losing your sanity at the same moment.

Today, the Lord has told me to strip off all of what I have been clinging to and carrying and wearing. He wants me to see the woman I really am beneath it all; He created me with His own hand and no matter what is going on around me, I am who I am beneath it all. Strip me from this hell, my Lord; strip these chains from my hands and feet and the receptors in my brain that bellow nightmarish thoughts to my neurons day in and day out.

Cleanse me, Lord. Push me to give in to the temptation of remembering who I am and who I was and who I will be.

(More from this song….)

“Conoceras la libertdad….”  You will know freedom.

“Entregame tu sed…..”  Bring me your thirst.

“Bebe mis ganas infinitas….” Drink of my infinite desires.

“Robare tu santidad……”  I will steal your sanity.

A song based on such immorality and hellbound lust has just been transformed into one of the most luscious, colorful, loving things that God could have said to me today. He took a song that I ironically listen to all of the time on my iPod and used it to speak loud and clear directly into my eardrums. He spoke with such intensity and desire for my understanding and clarity that for once, I have no further questions for Him. Instead, I am limp with slumber and am typing this now with heavy eyelids and tiring fingers.

The skies opened and all of a sudden, I was alone in this room. The three other occupants in the vicinity had vanished; the air became visible and I was basked in a vivid sunlight that only I could see. However, it was not a light that was visible to my eyes – but rather my heart. The dams of insecurity and desperation had been broken, and my spirit from years past and years to come flooded through like…. like nothing I have ever seen or felt before. If there were ever such a thing as a spiritual or mental orgasm, this was it. It was mind-blowing and near-death for just a fraction of a second without the physical response.

Pam warned me a long time ago that someday I would release everything that has been penned up inside and experience a creative explosion. I never dreamed it would happen at 11:15 a.m. on a Monday nearly five years later. I am sure this is just one of a series of explosions that are soon to follow.

Thank you, God, for letting me drink of Your infinite desires for my life and my path; Your Will for me and the soul that this borrowed body houses on Your magical Earth. I pray that this magical experience will occur over and over; whether You have blessed me with a sickness or a revelation that has finally shown me the way, I have finally tuned in and fallen to my knees in Your presence. I thank You again and again, my lovely Savior…

 

Gym Rant

I posted this on my Facebook page after a recent visit to the gym. I amused myself so greatly after reading it later that I decided to post it on this blog that nobody reads, as well. I do enjoy a good chuckle from time to time.

(Rant starts below…)

All right, I just have to say this one thing: If you are going to go to the gym, then WORK OUT. Do not sit on a machine sending and receiving text messages while an angry, evil-eyed, sweaty woman impatiently waits to use the machine (actually USE it) that you are instead covering with your stationary, lumpy, office-spread ass.

I am SO tired of people being inseparable from their cell phones and Blackberries at the gym. On top of that, the gym is busy enough as it is at the end of the work day. If you are using a weight machine as a place to park your lazy rump and chat with people on your super space-cadet cell phone, you are putting yourself at risk for something I might call Gym Rage.

Gym Rage is when the evil-eyed, red-faced, heavily-perspiring blonde woman with a braided ponytail shows up in your personal space with arms folded and lips curled in a pure estrogen-bathed fury. Without warning, she snatches the device from your slimy, ferociously-texting fingers and attempts to shove it down your ugly throat.

If you happen to be perched on the last machine in her workout circuit, her limbs may be tired by this point and she will instead hand the device to the next small child who is spotted running visibly faster than any adult on the premises. If you’re lucky, you may someday find your parasitic twin at the bottom of the waterslide or floating in a toilet inside the family locker room.

(And don’t even get me started on the B.O. and the farters…. just what in the hell do these people put into their bodies?!)

 

Top 10 Reasons It is Great to Be Single

My top ten reasons for enjoying singlehood:

1. You eat whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want.
2. You can walk around your apartment naked and go to the bathroom with the door open.
3. You can sleep like a starfish in your bed.
4. You can go wherever you want for as long as you want. This includes taking a vacation to any place in the world.
5. You can watch whatever you want on TV.
6. You can talk to whomever you want.
7. You can wear whatever you want.
8. You can buy whatever you want.
9. You save more money because no one else spends it but you.
10. You can clean the apartment whenever you feel like it, which might not be very often.

 

I Get It Already!

The poor economy is here. Yes, I know. I am fully aware that people are losing their jobs, having hard times finding new ones, running out of money, applying for unemployment and government assistance, falling into a depression, etc. I get it. Everywhere I go it is reiterated over and over and over. I get it, people.

Has anyone ever considered that, if we have a 10% unemployment rate in the country right now, it means that 90% of us are still working? Would the media like to take a look at things from that perspective at all, instead of wafting the fumes of doom and gloom in our faces 24 hours a day with no reprieve?

Yes, the economy is bad. I get it. But it doesn’t mean my feelings are any less important than they were when the economy was decent. If I still want to complain about my job, I’m going to complain about it. People say you shouldn’t complain about your job, that “at least you have one.” I disagree. Heavy breathers and loud typers and gossipers and two-faced people and perverts don’t automatically become acceptable in the work environment just because 10% of American citizens are out of work. It is what it is.

One of these days I will put the energy into writing about the food stamp scam in the Arab community here in Michigan, and why we are not “oh-so-poor” in this state if those bastards are eating for free by the herds. And stocking their shelves in their tax-free businesses using taxpayer dollars (food stamps).

Oh, you didn’t know that? A lot of people don’t. But a lot of people do, but do nothing about it. Like our politicians. Our law enforcement. State officials. Everyone who could do something but chooses not to.

That is what I definitely have a right to complain about in this sour economy of ours.

 

Soup

Soup. That is what’s for dinner every night these days. A mixture of colorful, softened vegetable bits soaking in a bubbling pool of hot water, or sometimes a flavored broth. Or whatever comes out of the can.

I will be the sexy woman with the sexy body like I once was. It starts with eating soup vs. a double cheeseburger. I will also be the healthy woman I once was. Losing weight will simply be a side effect of good health once it is obtained.

I will become smarter this year and study the things that I need to know in order to get away from my job(s) and find something that utilizes my intelligence instead of pushing it aside. It is really hard working with stupidity day in and day out. Sometimes I am afraid I will also become stupid. I think I’ve already began slurring my speech.

It began snowing again tonight; just a few inches, nothing to get angry about. I get angry when it snows. I perceive snow as an annoyance, an interruption, and yet another reminder that I live in a cold, drafty state when I could be living in a warm, sunshine state down south. My friend on the other side of the globe, however, loves the sight of snow and probably wishes it would snow where he lives. It is all about perception, I guess. Not to mention we always want what we don’t have.

It is 10:00. I will be going to bed early tonight. Already ate my soup and had a bath. Tomorrow it is time to sweat. I’ll be going to the gym after work along with 6,000 other people in the county that have the same goals. I wonder how many people will actually lose weight that have vowed to do it (again) this year?

 

I yearn for sanity.

Loud Typer is at it again. Banging away on his keys; thump, thump-thump, thump-thump-thump-thump, donk, donk-donk, chon, donk, chon-chon, thump, chonk. Click. Double-click. Thunk. (pause) THUNK. God help me.

I fondly remember the evening when I assed his keyboard. Yes, that’s right, I assed it. If you are an avid watcher of Seinfeld (my all-time favorite show), you may remember the episode where Elaine rubs her co-worker’s keyboard on her backside just to piss her off after a hilarious confrontation regarding germs and Elaine’s love life. One afternoon, Loud Typer angered me by sending me a message saying that he’d found an article about PCBs and how freezing/heating plastic does not leach them into your food or pose a health hazard (there was a reason he sent this to me, but I won’t go into that now… his attempt to win an argument, basically). He took the time to look on Snopes.com and copied it to my supervisor and boss, as well. So after he left work that evening (yeah I know, I should’ve done it right in his face the Seinfeld way), I rubbed his keyboard on the backside of my jeans like I had the itch of the century. I had the itch all right. The itch of revenge.

I am not sure how much longer my sanity will hold out. Every time I say that, it feels like the very end. When the thought of walking out this door and never coming back makes me salivate, I know that I’m in trouble. When I feel like gripping the sides of my manager’s soccer ball head and asking him in the loudest voice possible why he doesn’t seem to give a damn about me or give me anything to do, I know that I need help. When I would rather venture out to the warehouse and hold meaningless conversations with the grungy, stinky workers who cannot make eye contact with me longer than three seconds without dropping their gaze down to my breasts and lower body, than sit at my desk trying to keep busy, I know that it is time for change. The problem, however, is my desire to make a change. Or lack thereof.

I recently received an e-mail from a good friend of mine, my Alaskan friend Pam, with whom I spent the best semester of college ever back in the fall of 2000. We were like two peas in a pod and knew each other inside and out. We were on the same wavelength and could read each other’s minds. It was truly magical. About six months ago, I told her that I’d wanted a new job and wanted a better life in general. A few days ago she asked me if I’d been looking for a new job and if my apartment lease had expired yet. Oh.

Why yes, my apartment lease did expire and I renewed it, but because I’ve been a resident at the same address for over 24 months, I am now free to leave upon giving a 30-day notice. This is one area of life that I am not “stuck” in. Hmm…. I really should keep this information ripe in my thoughts.

I did look for a new job back in July. I sent a few resumes out but received no replies. I haven’t felt like looking since, because I keep telling myself that I don’t have enough relevant experience to merit a better job. But something inside tells me that this simply can’t be true in every case.