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.
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…
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.
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—
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.
The sudden call from the gastroenterologist was…less than welcome. That bill hanging over my head makes me more than a little nervous. I do not need my treatment cut off. So I impulsively, panickedly, set up a payment plan using money that I may not actually have. The impulse was not all folly–it was set something up or it goes into collection, my account goes into bad standing, and my health…I don’t want to think about it. I’ll take any help I can get.
I have a good feeling my money for payday is already spent, throwing the idea that I had for a business venture out the window.
Speaking of the window, there go the gunshots, and my meds are kicking in. Despite the terror that is the rent and this bill, I’ll sleep deep.
Confession: I will probably stick to those clicker lancets, because frankly even they make me jumpy. I recoil at standard lancets. It’s the visible needle. I have this thing with needles. If I can’t see the needle, I’m ok, but if I can see it then good luck.
I specifically ask doctors and med techs to not let me see the needles when there is a needle necessary. Of course, there’s a weird thing where I can taste some needles when they go in. (I can’t explain it, it’s always been a thing.)
Though I’m not diabetic or prediabetic, a work doctor a while back advised me to keep track of my blood sugar, after I had a hypoglycemic event in the office. It was confirmed by my doctor later on: I have nonreactive hypoglycemia.
Confounding Factor: My meds spike my levels artificially. So I have to keep an eye on THAT. The same meds also crash it.
So, at different times of the day, I have to determine if my malaise is general fatigue, the fibro, or if my blood sugar has just cratered. Usually it’s a combination of the second two and a cup of sugar coffee and an apple fixes things.
But first, I have to brace for that little stick…