Well That Was A Waste . . .

Alright . . . interview . . . interview . . .

*Taps chin*

What to say about this experience.

Well, I applied for a Backroom Associate which handles shipping, receiving, and does customer pick up.

There was not a single woman in that building. I shit you not.

Except little old me. And the managers were bewildered, as if they’d never seen a woman before in their life. It was so comical I almost laughed.

They asked me what position I was applying for again, as if I’d made a mistake.

I already waited around for about 30 minutes before the interview even started, and I’d arrived ten minutes early.

I fucked up once or twice in what I was saying and I probably said “uh” too many times, but honestly after the way they dealt with me and all the snotty looks they gave me (besides the one worker who got the manager for me, he was cool and always smiling) I don’t really want to work there anymore.

Usually they hire people right on the spot but instead I got the old “we’ll call you back for a second interview, maybe.”

I honestly don’t care. They weren’t professional, neither was their office. Their expressions towards me were atrocious–and this time I’m not even exaggerating. The manager liked my answers (so he says) but honestly I’d rather work for a different company. It just doesn’t seem to fit me, and that’s okay.

I’m hoping for a call back from a company that delivers food to low income families and other businesses and a school program. It pays well, it’s part time, and at the same time I get to help people. That’s the kind of job I want.

When the interviewer asked if I had any questions I said no because I’d lost interest. I know you should always ask questions but fuck it. I know if I had that job I’d have to sit there and prove myself ten times harder around those people. I don’t need that kind of stress.

I think I’m going to keep looking. If they call me back, I’ll just say I’ve got another position and thank you for the offer.

That being said, I’m proud of myself today. I handled it well. My anxiety caused minor stomach problems and I didn’t even shake. I was calm and collective and only slipped up once or twice with my words. I appeared way more confident than I was.

I feel this attempt was practice for the other job I’m hoping for. I think I’m going to continue on my path towards that job. I know I can get it if I really want it. And if they don’t call me back, I wait another week and re-apply. I’m the perfect person for that position, I know I am. I just feel it in my bones.

So I’m sending the feeling out into the universe.

I want the delivery job, not that backroom job. Please, for the Universe’s sake, give me that damn delivery job. 

I might actually suck up the courage to call them and ask where my application is. I want it that bad.

If I push aside my anxiety to do something I absolutely 100% hate doing, than you know I need that shit like a hog needs slop.

want that shit like a hog wants slop. 

Whatever.

I’m about to go bust up some BloodBorne.

What Do I Have To Prove?

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Hello Lovelies.

Why the fuck did I say that?

You’re all lovely, don’t even trip.

Tomorrow is that interview.

Surprisingly, I’m not nervous for it. Why? Because this anxiety is the normal “before interview” jitters. I can handle healthy anxiety, that’s a piece of cake.

5yqak3hcIt’s the “oh shit, I got the job and now I have to commit to something where I can’t predict every single move within the day” that makes me nervous. It’s the “oh shit, I have coworkers who will undoubtedly judge my appearance and capability from the moment I meet them (because everyone does it, don’t even lie)” and the “oh shit, I have to work and collaborate with these people.”

Mostly, it’s the “fuck, I have to adult again”.

I’ve adulted before. It fucking sucks.

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That feeds my addiction to my depression and anxiety and all the other fun, weird set backs my brain puts into place.

You know, like the times I pick up a cup from the cabinets and there’s some kind of white stain on it and the first thought that pops into my head is cyanide. So I have to get a different cup and I never touch that one again. Believe me, I remember it.

The fact that I can’t ever walk the same way twice down the apartment hill to my car. In the dark, particularly. There are always people waiting to stab me–at least that’s what it feels like–or coyotes ready to rip my arm off, which is completely relevant given there’s a pack of wild coyotes living behind one of the fences. We hear them howl all the time.

Honestly, sometimes all the Raccoons scare me more than anything. I might be able to make a loud noise and make myself appear bigger to a Coyote. I can run away from a stabber–you never know, he might trip over the horribly tall, concrete colored speed bump. But a raccoon? Naw, fuck that, straight up. They’re all suicidal, they don’t give a damn. They’ll charge you whether you have a sandwich in your hand or not.

I forgot what I was talking about again.

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Oh the weird habits. If I get a bad feeling I have to cut through the lobby and go down the stairs. Then on my way through the lobby I’m wondering “shit, what if that decision I made butterfly effected across the whole universe and now someone is going to get hit by a car, or I’m going to get hit by a plane in the next five seconds because of that decision?”, or “shit, what if that feeling was a diversion and the actual danger is the route I’m going right now?”

I don’t feel any better when I come out of the situation alive, either. It’s there festering, waiting until I come home and park and go through the whole process again. If it’s late at night I usually run up the hill and crash into the door. The faster I run the worse the feeling gets. Go figure.

The people in Ross were talking about me today, and laughing. I don’t know about what, but I was the only person in the store. It was 10:30pm. They started talking in Spanish first, but the closer they got to me the more they started speaking in English.

It’s sounds ridiculous but when I first heard them speaking Spanish I thought perhaps they were talking about how dumb it was to walk into a store a half hour before it closes, then I thought maybe they thought I was trying to steal something. They kept sending workers to go up and down the aisles by me. As soon as I thought “they’re speaking in Spanish so I won’t understand”, they started speaking in English.

Maybe people can read minds.

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Maybe I fly off the hinges at coincidences.

Maybe both are true and the world is an illusion.

Sometimes I think I was put here on Earth by whoever to go down a very specific path and I find signs to validate that belief. Deja Vu is one of them. You know, that feeling you get randomly, like you’ve done the very thing you’re doing currently, before? Some people have tried researching it and says its some kind of electrical overlap in the brain but hey . . . they were wrong about too little serotonin in social anxiety, weren’t they?

If you don’t know about the serotonin thing, it’s a pretty recently published finding. Google it. There are a lot more articles on it past the Finnish study I read.

When I think about something, and happen to see or hear about that thing a day later or whatever, that’s a sign I’m on the right path too. It means whatever layers of reality are out there in the universe have lined up for one specific moment just to link two of my thoughts together. That’s an honest belief. I’m not trying to sound like a loon.

What do I think I was put here for? I don’t know. But it’s something amazing, something world-changing. In high school I was convinced I would be the President of the U.S, but the signs were never there now that I think about it. Politics are too stressful anyway.

Then there’s my normal social anxiety. The “Oh God they’re staring at me, they hate me” or the “shit, what do I say now? I can’t hold a conversation”. And all the other ruminating thoughts that keep me awake and alert of my own existence at night.

There’s the fact that I’m an introvert.

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Then there’s my health anxiety. The “I’m going to have a heart attack or blot clot or stroke at any moment because I haven’t moved from my bed in the last few hours” or the “shit I got a cut, I got Ebola” or the “this butter knife was used in the butter and is still in the butter because it was meant for the butter but . . . how long has it been out here? What if someone put something on it? By accident? On purpose?

See! Deja Vu right now. I’ve written that line before, I know I have. But not this one. I’m telling you all the right things, that’s what it means.

Anyway, what if a fly landed on the knife or something? What if it laid some kind of infected larvae? Ebola. 

If I’m depressed, lying in my bed, hoping a plane will crash on the complex and kill me, I don’t have to think about trying to “better myself” in this world (whatever that means anymore), I don’t have to think about responsibility or life or people.

I never use my mental health to get out of things, not purposefully, not in a manipulative stand-point. I’ve only used it where applicable. It keeps me from doing things I want to do and it keeps me from doing things I don’t want to do. 

So, you know, 50/50 there.

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What I hate are people who make me feel I need to prove the problems I have. You know, the people who ride off how hard it is for me when I tell them, the people who don’t believe me or simply don’t give a shit and think I’m some moocher making up a thousand excuses just to hide from responsibility.

Well, getting this job will be a big poke in the eye and a kick in the groin to them. I am trying.

Will that help my mental health?

I don’t know. It might make it worse. It might make it better. It might do both.

I don’t have anything to prove. It’s going to be infinitely harder for me to work this job than it would be for my boyfriend to do it. It’ll be infinitely harder for me to work this job than it would be any of my “friends”.

I’m just using them as an example.

I know what’s hard for me. If they don’t believe me, that’s their problem. If they laugh when I tell them about the creepy people hiding in the shadows when I run up the hill then that’s their choice. Regardless, it’s still real for me in the moment.

If that’s funny than I’m missing the joke.

And I’m the fucking queen of bad jokes.