the light at the end of the tunnel…

It has finally happened.

I am at work–the source of my depression and anxiety–and I simply cannot wipe the smile from my face. After all my frustration, all my agony, all my praying, and all my efforts I am finally–FINALLY– getting out of here. After the next few days or so, I will never have to walk into this building again. And after noon today, thanks to a previously scheduled vacation, I will never have to look at my boss’s face again for the rest of my life if I so choose, and believe me– I SO CHOOSE.

For months, I worked furiously on perfecting my resume and portfolio. I sent resume after resume and writing sample after writing sample to everyone that I could think of. I scoured CareerBuilder and Monster for hours a day looking for anything that I could even remotely see myself doing. I responded to hundreds of want ads/online postings and sent dozens more resumes to companies that didn’t advertise that they were looking. All that work and nothing–NOT ONE OF THEM–came to fruition. I didn’t so much as receive a callback from a single employer.

Frustration isn’t a big or strong enough word to describe how it felt. I started out so positively. I was motivated and writing heartfelt cover letters (professionally, of course). I kept telling myself, “tomorrow–someone will call tomorrow.” But you can only keep this attitude through so many tomorrows. No one called. No one ever called. I became frustrated and depressed. I felt that I wasn’t good enough–how could NO ONE be interested? I began doubting everything about my abilities. Of course, it didn’t help that my boss LOVES to list my inefficiencies. I spiraled.

If I had a job that I enjoyed, the search and lack of response wouldn’t have affected me the way that it did. But being that I hate my boss with such a burning passion, I started to feel like I was slowly going crazy. My stomach was constantly in knots while I was working. If I heard his voice, my stomach would lurch and immediately start burning. Weekends used to be an escape, but I started to spend so much time and energy dreading Monday, that even they became unenjoyable.

This job opportunity could not have come at a better time.

A new friend of mine, who works at the corporate headquarters of a very fun and trendy company, told me that her company was looking for a Marketing Assistant. Upon hearing my tales of my work environment, she vowed to do her best to get me the job. I got my first call to set up a phone interview while I was in Mexico. Since then, I’ve had two interview sessions with several different people in the company.

Through the whole process, I was on pins and needles. My friend was constantly feeding me information about other girls who were coming in and interviewing for the job. She put my fears to rest when she told me that she knew for a fact I was in the top 2 people being considered. The process felt sooo long to me. I was in constant worry. Was I good enough in my interviews? Is anyone going to notice that I’ve taken 3 days off “sick” so that I could go on these interviews? Am I going to be crushed if I don’t get this job?

I felt like I was at the end of my rope and if I didn’t get this job, I would fall off. Luckily, I won’t get the opportunity to see. They called me and offered me the position making significantly more than I make now with far more room for growth and movement. I hung up the phone and screamed and stamped my feet. I was so excited, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I’ll be doing a lot of the same things I’m doing now, but on a much grander scale. Instead of brochures about diabetes, I’ll be making brochures about bands and music. Instead of a newsletter about hospital happenings, I’ll be making a newsletter focused on trendy, and cutting edge products. I’ll also be involved in fashion roll outs and helping to decide which accessories are cool enough to hit shelves. I’ll get to go to free concerts and be flown to Vegas twice a year for conventions focused on the product.

It sounds like everything I’ve ever wanted in a job. Fun, trendy, exciting. I know it will be A LOT of hard work. I’ve been warned sufficiently in EVERY interview that I went on that the job is BUSY BUSY BUSY. Honestly, that sounds like music to my ears. Working constantly makes the day go by faster, and if I like what I’m doing, that’s even better.

I’m so happy and so excited that I can barely contain myself. I just want to get out of here. I want to step away from this part of my life.

I just have this feeling that there is so much on the horizon and I can’t wait to get there.

 

open letter to my office…

Dear Suite 11,

Goodbye industrial carpeting. You are such a small thing, but I’ve grown to hate you as much as I hate these four bland walls that box me in all day long. Goodbye neutral tones and “eggshell” paint. Eggshell my ass. White is white and in this atomosphere, white is as clinical and depressing as it gets. Goodbye too small desk and overflowing file cabinets. Goodbye boxes and boxes of shit left over from the office move. Someday someone will look through you to sort out your contents but that person will not be me. Sorry, I just never appreciated your baggage.

Goodbye jerkoff boss. I know you’re only being nice to me so that I don’t go report your ass to HR on my way out of here. I see right through you, but thanks for not making this a miserable two weeks. Goodbye long, drawn out lectures about filling fax machines with paper and tutorials on how to answer phones and take messages. Goodbye you computer illiterate asshole–find someone else to help you print your documents or add a new person to your contact list. I’m going to use my degree for something greater than blowing up balloons for you and your stupid functions. Goodbye to your demeaning lectures and constant questioning of my competency. Just because I don’t want to talk to you doesn’t mean the job doesn’t get done. Find someone else to mentally abuse, because I’m out of here. Goodbye you old, self important, bipolar son-of-a-bitch. I guess you don’t have to fire me–because I quit.

I QUIT.
I MOTHERFUCKING QUIT.

Respectfully,
Jersey

 

when words just won’t come…

I haven’t been around in a while. I’ve been lurking on other people’s journals, but as far as my words are concerned, I’ve been absent. They just haven’t been coming. I don’t know what it is.

There are things in my life worth writing about. I went to Mexico for a week, which was an amazing experience. My boss has been an uber-jerk and even informed me that if I didn’t clean up my act, he’d have to fire me– I’m on 60 days “probation.” I’m the BEST assistant he’s ever had. I go above and beyond as far as my duties go– but it pisses him off that I can’t stand to be around him. He doesn’t think we “share enough of our day.” Basically, it pisses him off that I do my thing, he does his thing and I have no desire to talk to him about either. He threatens termination to convince me to speak to him. Ugh. But I digress– this is definitely fodder for another post. I have a job prospect that I will not write about right now for fear of jinxing it. All the other job prospects I thought I had fell through. I told many people about them very excitedly. Frankly, I’m tired of explaining why I’m still stuck at my dead end job. This one I’m keeping hush hush until I know either way. If I get it, celebration! If I don’t, no one will know but me.

So I do have things to write about, I just can’t find the inspiration to write about them. I know this is an awful habit that I have to break. Stephen King said once that in order to be a good writer, you have to READ at least 4 hours a day and WRITE at least 4 hours a day. Various other authors and sources also say that you should just write. Even if it’s stupid, irrelevant, for your eyes only, or it just plain doesn’t make sense– just write.

Another bad habit I have is to get caught up in grammar or mistakes as I’m writing. Everyone and their mother can tell you that you shouldn’t get too hung up on perfect grammar, exposition, punctuation, etc. Save it for the editing. No matter how much I tell myself this, I can’t stop myself from correcting as I go. I know it slows me down, and it often derails my train of thoughts.

I love to read and I love to write. I sorely miss both of them. I pains me to look at my calender and see that I haven’t written a single word since April. So these are the promises that I am going to make to myself:

1. I’m going to buy a pretty journal. Pretty, decorative, or inspirational journals really motivate me to write. I guess, somewhere in my mind, I think something that appealing needs to be filled with thoughts, stories, and lyrics.

2. I will carry said journal around with me so that I can write whenever inspiration strikes. All too often, I’ll think of a clever line, song lyrics, or even just an idea and convince myself that I’ll remember it later. Later comes, and the idea is gone.

3. I will begin reading again. Maybe I’ll even journal about my opinions on the book and kill two birds with one stone. I will excerpt particularly well written pieces and draw inspiration from them.

4. I will begin scrapbooking again. Scrapbooking is another creative outlet that I really enjoy but have neglected. I can begin with my trip to Mexico– or my grandparent’s trip to Italy and Rome.

5. Most importantly, I will write. The last 30-45 minutes of my work day are the most brutal for me. By this time, I usually have nothing to do and have visited and revisted all my daily journals and websites. Instead of staring at the clock and willing it to move faster, I will take the time to write. I will write about anything at all– even if it’s stupid, irrelevant, or makes no sense at all.

I hope by doing these things I can find my creativity again. Growing up, everyone told me I should be an author or an artist. I somehow lost my art and my words. I know I have not lost them forever– I can feel a writing bug coming on.

Hopefully, this will be the beginning of something good– in more ways than one.

 

daddy’s little girl

I love my father more than I have ever loved or will ever love another man in this lifetime. I can’t even begin to put it into words. Too often in our society, fathers are either non-existant or they are there merely there to put a roof over their families heads, end of story. My dad is “merely” nothing. He is everything– he is everything you could ask for in a parent, let alone in a father.

My dad taught me how to throw a football and how to swing a baseball bat. He went to every single softball ball game–and if he wasn’t there, it was because he was working overtime to give our family a better life. I would always go to my dad to comb my hair after a bath–he wouldn’t tug and hurt my head like my mom would. He was also better at waking me up in the morning for school. Where as my mom would bang the door open and slam on the light while screaming, “Let’s go it’s time to get up!” my dad would come in quietly and speak softly to me until I slowly came out of sleep.

Don’t get me wrong, my dad has a temper and when he gets angry, it can be scary. Though looking back now, he got mad at legitimate things– like the time the family went on vacation and I left my house key with one of my friends so she and her boyfriend could have some alone time together. Being the youngen that I was, I wasn’t thinking they could have easily thrown a party and trash the house or worse. My dad thought of that though, and boy he let me know it. Luckily, they didn’t throw a party or trash the house–the only evidence we had that they were ever there was an empty condom wrapper in my brother’s room, and really– it could have been his.

Even in anger, my dad never hit my brother or me. Really, he wouldn’t have to. If anyone yells at me, regardless of who it is, I can let it roll off my back–roll my eyes, shrug my shoulders, whatever. My dad doesn’t even have to raise his voice– a simple, “I’m disappointed in you,” hits me harder than a ton of bricks and really gets the tears flowing. Maybe it’s because I respect him so much and feel I owe him everything, but I never want to disappoint him.

The summer after my senior year I went on a road trip to Florida with 3 friends–one of them being my best friend. Long story short, I had a falling out with 2 of the friends while in Florida (perhaps fodder for another post). The day we were going to drive back I was telling my father on the phone how much I didn’t want to spend the next 20 hours in a cramped Neon with these girls. He called me back within the hour and told me he bought me a plane ticket–everything was taken care of–all I had to to was get a taxi to the airport and I’d be home in a matter of hours. He met me at the airport when I landed. The whole way home I was practically bursting with love for him.

Even now he amazes me. He was raised in a very Catholic environment. His family went to church every Sunday and he and his brothers and sisters attended Catholic School. He was raised to believe that homosexuality is a sin. In conversations we had years before I came out, he would express his disapproval of gays when it came up on TV or in conversation. “I just don’t get it,” he would say. I was most afraid to come out to him. I knew my mom, with whom I’m getting closer with as I get older, would love me no matter what. She was always there for me growing up, willing to talk about anything and everything. I was afraid though, of no longer being my daddy’s little girl. Can you be a daddy’s girl if your daddy hates you?

He didn’t hate me, though. When it all came to the surface he said, “We are your parents and we will always love you, no matter what. And if you love somebody, then we will love them because you love them and they are important to you–no matter who it is. The world is scary enough and will be hard enough on you as it is–know that you will always have a place here.” It’s enough to break my heart and make me tear up all over again as I type it.

Though it does make him a little uncomfortable for him to see Kara and I being “touchy” he has never made us feel unwelcome in our family. He treats Kara as if she were his own daughter and both of them truly enjoy each other’s company. Looking back now, I can’t believe I was so scared. I should have known he’d love me no matter what.

I wanted to take the time to write this–a day late, I know– for Father’s Day. Someday, I hope to write something more elequent that he can be proud to read. Something that explains how much I appreciate not only the roof over my head and the food in my belly, but also the college education, my first car, the countless times he left work early and woke up out of sleep to jump my car or change my tire, the baseball and football games we went to, the vacations, the discussions, the heated debates, but mostly, the unconditional love and understanding.

He doesn’t read this blog, but I want to put this out in the universe:

Dad, I love you. Thank you for everything.

 

mind fuck

Being with you is a mind fuck.
Can I really be so wrong?
All the time?

I’m exhausted.
Physically
Mentally
Exhausted.

Break my heart.
It doesn’t have the strength
to beat anymore anyway.

 

bible thumping

An engineering professor is treating her husband, a loan officer, to dinner for finally giving in to her pleas to shave off the scraggly beard he grew on vacation. His favorite restaurant is a casual place where they both feel comfortable in slacks and cotton/polyester-blend golf shirts. But, as always, she wears the gold and pearl pendant he gave her the day her divorce decree was final. They’re laughing over their menus because they know he always ends up diving into a giant plate of ribs but she won’t be talked into anything more fattening than shrimp.

Quiz: How many biblical prohibitions are they violating?

Well, wives are supposed to be ’submissive’ to their husbands (I Peter 3:1).
And all women are forbidden to teach men (I Timothy 2:12), wear gold or pearls (I Timothy 2:9) or dress in clothing that ‘pertains to a man’ (Deuteronomy 22:5).
Shellfish and pork are definitely out (Leviticus 11:7, 10) as are usury (Deuteronomy 23:19), shaving (Leviticus 19:27) and clothes of more than one fabric (Leviticus 19:19).
And since the Bible rarely recognizes divorce, they’re committing adultery, which carries the rather harsh penalty of death by stoning (Deuteronomy 22:22).

So why are they having such a good time?

Probably because they wouldn’t think of worrying about rules that seem absurd, anachronistic or - at best - unrealistic. Yet this same modern-day couple could easily be among the millions of Americans who never hesitate to lean on the Bible to justify their own anti-gay attitudes.

~Deb Price, And Say Hi To Joyce

 

how can I win?

Her love goes in and out like a tide
Slowly eroding the beach of my mind.

 

reminisce

You could fold his heart in half
and the sides would never meet.
An asymetrical mess to say the least.

He has a girl on each arm
and a different smile for each of them,
but his favorite accessory
has always been the heart on his sleeve.

“The broken heart is the new black,” he says, “It goes with everything and it never goes out of style.”

He smirks.
He wears his lessons well.
Today he learned it takes less than death to kill a person, at least on the inside.

“My advice?” he offers, “Leave before they fall…”

4vg

 

all is fair in love and academia

I got my alumni card/benefits package in the mail the other day and it feels so good to be officially graduated. I still owe the university money so I can’t get my diploma yet, but it’s such a load off my mind to know that for all intents and purposes, I am a graduate. I’m relieved that I managed to make it through, especially since, knowing me, I’m surprised I even survived my senior year.

Let me start by saying that I am an excellent student. I don’t mean to toot my own horn on that, but I am. I earned straight A’s all through school– elementary through high school. College was a little harder, but I am a naturally organized person and figured out what I had to do to impress my professors pretty quickly. I rarely missed class, was never late, aced most of my tests, participated in all class discussions, led group activities to respectable grades, and could write A caliber 10-page term papers in a matter of hours. I could research like no other and my presentations were always very professional. You have to know that to understand what a failure my senior year was.

My senior year was a mess. I had to carry a heavier course load because made the mistake a few semesters before of taking 4 classes instead of 5–leaving me a few credits short of where I should have been. (This accounts for 2 of the courses I took at community college the summer after I walked) This was also the year that Kara and I confessed our feelings to each other. As I’ve mentioned before, that year was tumultuous. The anger, guilt, frustration, and whatever else really tore at us endlessly.

Here would be a good time to explain that I am not an emotionally strong person. A lot of people, maybe even most people, have this ability to just go on with their lives no matter what is going on with them personally. They could be dying inside, but they get up, put on a happy face and go about their day because, well, they have to. I am not one of these people. Despite my best efforts and strongest prayers, I don’t think I will ever be one of these people. Kara had ups and downs during that time and the downs left me emotionally crippled. She’d say, “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” and it would put me in bed for 2 days. I’d skip class to stay home and cry or drive around aimlessly. When things were good, I’d skip class to visit her on her lunch break from work. Of course, I never told her that I skipped class to see her–she never would have approved. I skipped many a night class to spend time with her where ever she was going to be. I skipped more classes during my senior year than in my entire academic life combined. Needless to say, I failed 2 classes because of my poor attendence (which account for the other 2 summer courses I took at community college) and managed to just barely pass the others. The worst part is, under normal circumstances, I could have aced any one of those classes with my eyes closed.

And here is where I am torn between fate and free will. Do I regret the scorge that is my senior year? Do I believe things would have turned out differently if I had put my schooling ahead of her instead of vice versa? Or would we have ended up together regardless of my academic achievements. If I changed one thing… any one thing, would my life be completely different now? If I exchanged one day of reckless abandon for one day of studying, would she have found another path to follow in that time that I wasn’t with her? Should I even bother with these questions considering I got everything I wanted in the end? I got the girl and (somewhere) the diploma, so does it matter the path that I took?

I’ll put these questions to rest for now and just enjoy the fact that I made it through at all.

*Editors Note: When I think back to that time, I am kind of disgusted with myself for the way that I let situations control me. I have always been this way. I broke up with the first boyfriend that I ever had and even though I was the one that broke up with him because he was making me miserable (and come to find out all these years later I wasn’t attracted to him because I’m a lesbian LOL), I cried for three days because I felt so bad. Three days! Over someone I didn’t even care about. I don’t even know what you would call this trait that I have, but it is one of the traits that I really wish I could change about myself. It’s debilitating and I’m sure, extremely unhealthy.

 

god grew tired of us and feeling small

On Monday, I watched the documentary God Grew Tired of Us. The following is a description of the movie from its website:

Orphaned by a tumultuous civil war and traveling barefoot across the sub-Saharan desert, John Bul Dau, Daniel Abol Pach and Panther Blor were among the 25,000 “Lost Boys” (ages 3 to 13) who fled villages, formed surrogate families and sought refuge from famine, disease, wild animals and attacks from rebel soldiers. Named by a journalist after Peter Pan’s posse of orphans who protected and provided for each other, the “Lost Boys” traveled together for five years and against all odds crossed into the UN’s refugee camp in Kakuma, Kenya. A journey’s end for some, it was only the beginning for John, Daniel and Panther, who along with 3800 other young survivors, were selected to re-settle in the United States.

Watching what these boys had to go through was heart wrenching. They trecked 500+ miles across the biggest country in Africa to find whatever safety they could. They battled the elements, hunger, thirst, wild animals, etc, to find whatever safety they could. When those who survived finally made it to the Red Cross camp, they had safety, but not much else. They got a bowl of grains everyday and donated clothing–other than that they had each other.

On Tuesday, I went to a local school to see one of these boys speak. It was absolutely amazing to hear his story in his own words– amazingly enough, when he arrived in America, it only took him 3 months to learn the language.

Needless to say, he is not a boy anymore. After spending 10 years in the refugee camp, when he arrived in America, he was 25 years old. (This is the age the government assigned all the lost boys since there were no records of their births.) Hearing him talk about coming to American was so humbling. Growing up in Sudan, he had no idea there were even other countries. His people had no idea there were other ways of living. The documentary shows many of the boys being taught how to use a toilet, how to use a shower, even how to eat out of a bag of potato chips.

The speaker last night was assigned to live in Philadelphia. He enrolled in a local high school and took an interest in running track. From there, he went on to Widener University, got a bachelors in social work and continued running track. Currently, he is working on getting his Masters in Pharmaceuticals and he is training for the upcoming Olympics. Yeah–he qualified for the Olympics for running track.

Because of his achievements, ESPN wanted to do a feature on him and offered him a chance to go back to his old village in Sudan (now that the war is over). Though he was scared, he knew that he had to. Standing in front of that room full of people, and seeing him get choked up while talking about returning home, really opened everyone’s eyes to how important his mission is. “Everyone was sick,” he said, “Everyone. Even the animals were sick. I need to find a way to serve them, this is what I must do.”

He is not the only Lost Boy pursuing a higher education. Hundreds of others are getting their masters, their PhDs, their MBAs. They ALL plan to return to Sudan and start building from the ground up— plumbing, medicine, schools. Now that they’ve seen what they can accomplish, they all want to go back and save their homeland.

The whole experience was so moving and so humbling. It made me feel incredibly small. Here’s this man who has been through hell and back–literally. Ripped from his family because of unspeakable violence, forced to walk through the desert with no food, no water, and battle god knows what on the way, ripped from his culture and everything familiar and thrown into a country that may as well be another planet. Here he is– coming from literally nothing and changing the world– and here I am complaining every day how I hate my job and how weekends are too short.

All in all, the speech he gave was extremely moving and I hope I am a better person for having seen/heard him. In his own words, I hope to start taking negatives and turning them into positives.