The job search blues.

I filled out another three applications today. In keeping with the requirements of the unemployment situation, I jotted them down on a piece of paper to keep them straight. Part of me wishes I had already heard something, the impatient part. The other part knows that this is a slow process, and that I have to make sure that I wait patiently for a hear back from these people. I wish this were a faster process.

I don’t remember how long it took when I was looking for this first job. I remember the day I got the callback, the time I took the wrong turn and wound up in the wrong side of town and wound up getting a ride to the proper place from a good Samaritan who took me from the gas station to the motel. Nothing like that will happen this time, I am sure, because this time around I carry around a cell phone with a map, and I will be able to navigate with that.

I am frustrated with my impatience. Though my body continues to rebel—with numbness in one hand, pain in an elbow, the usual trouble with my knees—I would like to work. I liked making money, feeling productive. Knowing where the money for bills was coming from was a nice thing.

It’s been keeping me awake. I’ve been keeping a running list of things I’ve wanted to get when I get work again. The list at points has included a lunch at a local sit down burger chain, sheets, an expensive (to me) fish to cook for dinner, elderberries to ferment, a video game, and spices. But I think the thing I really want to get when I get this job is a good night’s sleep.

Advertisements

No sleep til…

The week has been something else. Job hunting, storms, and a phone interview that I cannot tell was good or not. The tone seems to have been a good interview, but I have never been good at telling tone without seeing a face conclusively—it is always a guess for me. That is an irony for me, since I can remotely read someone’s cards with remarkable ease.

This week has also brought some surprising news: I’m down a pants size. Whether this is because I’ve been forced to eat less or because I’ve been drinking more tea, it’s…interesting. It ceretainly busted my (what I now realize was rather outlandish) theory that I had done the laundry wrong at some point and had stretched my good pair of jeans.

If I’m being honest, tea and tarot have been the reliable comforts in this time of struggle. I can brew a hot cup and sip before a meditative reading at night after a day of trudging around finding out that the places I was going only take online applications now. The hot drink makes everything fall away, makes it feel for one second that everything is going to be okay, for just one second. It’s not like I can say that it takes me back to a time before—my past was a fraught one, even though it was in that past that I discovered my love of tea. No, a drink of tea brings me uniquely into the moment, so that nothing exists but that moment, and the sip that exist in it. In a similar vein, tarot brings me into a mindfulness that makes me focus on both the now and what I have to do next, so that I don’t get trapped in the spiral of unending what-ifs that my brain is prone to sending me into. It’s a trick I learned early into experimenting with my faith and while it’s not for everyone, it works for me.

It’s late. Well, if I want to get technical, it’s pretty early for me—lately I go to bed at four in the morning, and it’s barely one in the morning. But, my tea is getting cold waiting for me, and my cards are waiting for my nightly meditation.

So, good night…

The Trudge

As each day passes without a hit on the job search, I wonder. How am I going to pay the bills, how am I going to survive.

How I’m going to deal with this situation.

The canning happened directly in response to a situation that my landlords caused: they didn’t take care of the problem right away and as a result my job was offed.

I wonder if I have a case.

I wonder if I can do something.

I wonder, and then I trudge out the door again looking for places that have paper applications, with a notebook so that I can write down the names of the places that don’t and so I can go to the websites of the others later on at the end of the day.

After a long hiatus, a post on my health.

The elevated liver numbers that have my GP mildly interested have given my gastroenterologist one hell of a concern. They want a liver ultrasound. And due to the whole late night coughing up acid and agonizing abdominal pain thing that responds to nothing, they also want an endoscopy, just to make sure nothing is fucked. So I’m going to need a ride that day. They also agree that the weight thing is a distribution situation re: losing inches but not weight, and that the blood sugar is probably because of one specific medication and to just keep an eye on it.

Interesting day.

Ack Bats.

One of the more interesting symptoms of my mental illness is that I have hallucinations.

Well, had—my meds were finally adjusted to keep those in check.

But the interesting thing about them was that they were…just like, bats.

Bats.

They didn’t really do much besides… well, be bats. They just hung around. Everywhere. Sometimes one would get too close to my face and I’d flinch. Try explaining that to Joe Passerby.

Adjusting to life without the bats was strange. I’d gotten to a point where I couldn’t remember life without bats. But they went, and I was free.

Peripheral vision was suddenly actually something useful, at least.

Lashed.

I still have flashbacks to the day I woke up, in my stepmother’s house, to the accusations of theft from the pantry. I was wasting away at the time, a dangerous ninety something pounds. My stepsiblings were getting plumper and plumper. I was whipped with a belt in the laundry room while forced to hold the hanging bar, dissociation keeping me from giving that woman the satisfaction of a vivid pain reaction.

Every time I am around her, I remember this day.

I haven’t trusted her completely since that day.

Even on the days when we partake, a faint part of my mind remembers it. It’s engraved in my mind. When I’m around her, my guard just stays up.

It’s in the front of my mind because the anniversary of the beating is coming—

My birthday.

That’s right. I was lashed like a thief on my birthday.

The thoughts are…intrusive. I’m trying to get rid of them. It’s not working.

I can feel the impact points on my back, still.