Truths

#GiveMeSomeWorkDamnit

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My nickname should be Serial Killer because I murdered the shit out of those applications!

No one?

Alright. It’s all good. Go laugh at someone else, someone funnier and richer and willing to stand on a stage at the risk of humiliation, it’s not like I’m going to hack your I.P address and GPS track your computer and find your house and light it on fire and laugh at it or anything.

I won’t, I promise; empty sarcastic threats are my specialty.

Even if I did find your address, I’d probably just steal your dog.

I’d leave a note too, saying “sorry I stole your dog; I left an Iguana in it’s place. His name is Dave. He hates people. Have fun!”

I did murder those applications though.

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What applications? What are you talking about? What’s going on!??!?! WHAT IS LIFE?!?!?!?

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Let Me Put Some Kush Up in It

Job applications ya’ll. They annoying.

But I be murdering ’em left and right trying to get me some income so I can stop being the broke ass I’ve always been. I’m clicking on “apply” to every single position that isn’t Cashier or sales floor representative or sales associate or anything that has me dealing with people’s problems all day long.

I know I can handle a few people, maybe team members who I have to see and interact with every day, people like that. But if you expect me to handle bitchy customers for six to eight hours a day and still go home sane, than you’ve got the wrong person.

I’m not even considering restaurants. Could you imagine me as a server? One of two things will happen:

  1. The people will be so intimidating I’ll have the same breakdown I had at my last retail job and just quit coming–the anxiety would keep me up all night and once this next semester starts up again I can’t have these kinds of distractions. I refuse to let my mental health hold me back from what I want to do with my life any longer. That includes working.
  2. I’m going to get so pissed off my face is going to go beet red even though it’s brown and a bitches head is going to get cut off.

I mean, it is what it is.

I have a mouth and I have anger issues. If you tickle that little spot–err, okay, that gigantic spot–my anxiety will literally poof out of existence. I might not even remember what I say, or even do. I’ll have a rage attack. Don’t underestimate girls man, we can go 0-100 real quick.

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At least, I can.

So I’m looking for jobs that either having me driving or in the backroom or stocking the floor or cleaning–anything with a limited amount of exposure to the public.

It’s interesting the situations where my anxiety seems to extinguish itself. In an argument the anger will prevail. The throbbing in my throat and chest is no longer fueled by fear but by pure adrenaline, angry adrenaline, and it honestly feels pretty good. I probably don’t get enough of my other emotions, that’s my theory. It’s nice to let it all out every once in a while. But how and where–that’s what I need to work on.

If I see someone getting assaulted or, when I was school bullied, I’ll be the first to step in or call the police or put myself in a situation a lot of other people tell me not to.

One night my boyfriend and I were walking out of CVS drug store and a man was shouting at the top of his lungs at some woman in a white car. There’s always security around this story because it’s open 24/7 but this time they were no where in sight. The four homeless men stood by the wall watching and customers were just strutting past hoping they wouldn’t be noticed.

An argument is personal but I didn’t get a good feeling from it. So I stood and watched. The man tried to yank open her car door and when he couldn’t he tried reaching through the window to grab her or punch her; it all happened so fast I couldn’t tell. She screamed for him to get away and I already had my phone out and backed towards the end of her car ready to read the license plate number to the police. My boyfriend kept telling me to come on but I know what it’s like to be attacked–how am I supposed to walk away from that? 

The man ran around the other side of her car and hopped in. Yes, they knew each other, this wasn’t some random robbery or something. They were screaming at each other louder now, loud enough for people to glance over but figure it was unnecessary to put themselves at jeopardy.

I hate the bystander effect. Never been a big fan.

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I’m not going to get myself in their business. I was, however, waiting for true physical confrontation–a reason to call the authorities. He tried yanking something from her, it might have been the car wheel, and I called to my boyfriend that I was about to call the police if he hit her. I Basically shouted it. Both people glanced up and the woman stared at me first. The man stared at me second and I glared and I dared him to say some shit because I’m not scared of cowards.

Sounds like I was putting myself in danger, but I wasn’t. There was enough space between us and enough people around to where neither of them would try anything stupid. She started up the car and sped off. Sure, maybe they went and argued some place else. Maybe she tossed him out her car on the freeway. Maybe he shot her. I couldn’t ever know, but I know at that moment I wasn’t going to stand there and watch someone get assaulted.

They were probably drug addicts, there’s a lot of them in that area, but a person is a person.

I wished I could have had reason to call the authorities. I really wish I did; I would have felt much better. My boyfriend told me I shouldn’t get involved but I grew up around that kind of violence. I’m obviously not going to sit around while it happens right in front of my face, not if I have a small window to intervene.

7388786858851959_cpqabkvz_cThose are the moments I’m not really anxious, but the skills I’ve learned through anxiety come in handy. The ability to assess the danger level of a situation, the ability to skim through a million bad options that could happen in a matter of seconds and assess whether it’s worth it or not.

I’m not saying I’m super man here, but shit, if you’re with me in a tough situation you’ll swear up and down I’m the calmest person you’ve met. By the time you realize what’s going on, I’ll have thought of every possibility that could go wrong and every type of solution for those possibilities. I’m always primed and ready for disaster.

I think that would make me a valuable asset to a workforce. If something horrid happens I’m not going to be the one at the desk breathing heavy, distressed, ripping my hair out or the one kicking walls and getting blinded by panic. I’ll be the one zipping through a million solutions I already on reserve, and I’ll keep zipping through them until one of them works.

Those of us with mental health issues are valuable members of society, society just doesn’t know that yet. And I have to admit, many of us who struggle like that don’t even know it yet. But we are. We see the world in an entirely different light. We can come up with ideas and solutions and options unique from the average person.

We’re applied artists and good workers and intelligence people; we’re college students and Ph.D’s and writers and comedians and actors and band geeks. We make up a substantial part of the population and we have an insight on the world no one else does. Be proud of that. 

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But also be proud of the fact that you’re not that different from everyone else. We all struggle with something, whether it’s mental health, physical health, emotional health, money, housing, whatever; we all struggle. We’re not very different from each other and I think the more we divide ourselves up into categories, the more stigma is perpetuated–not just for mental health but for all sorts of other issues.

We focus on our differences rather than our similarities. How does that make sense?

That’s why, a while back, I bashed the #StopTheStigma twitter sensations with their cardboard signs and medications. We’re different, but we’re not that different. Not so different that we should separate ourselves from the rest of the population. We all struggle. I think that’s what people fail to notice, that mental health issues cause a struggle.

We’re all so used to feeling our own struggle that we invalidate other’s struggles. I’ve done it before. We’ve all done it.

That’s the real problem here. Fuck not understanding the disorders, fuck not understanding the brain or classical conditioning, fuck Political Correctness like the difference between having a disorder or being a disorder, fuck having a disorder vs a disease vs an illness. This runs deeper than that. 

You don’t have to identify with my anxiety or have lived with anxiety to understand how hard it is to simply struggle. You should intrinsically know that tight knot in your stomach and negative thoughts and how hard it is to get out of bed some days. Because we all do it over different things. Because we’re all humans.

I think. Except maybe Ben Carson. I think he’s an alien Ya’ll.

The point is, I’d be a good worker so fucking call me back already. Shit.

If titling this post #GiveMeSomeWorkDamnit actually gets me work, I will take back all the bullshit I talk about # campaigns.

About AlishiaDee (372 Articles)
Alishia D. is a blogger, a beginning novelist, and a counselor at 2nd Story Peer Respite house where diagnostic labels and the culture of mental health is long forgotten. She's a mental health peer who has bounced through as many labels as she has doctors, and enjoys being sarcastic when she can. She also hates writing in 3rd person.

1 Comment on #GiveMeSomeWorkDamnit

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