I got a letter from a ghost today. It was a reminder of how much he has let me down. I thought I would miss him, but it really is better this way. My heart is safer.
One more reason to forgo Saturday mail.
Between my friends who are struggling, the girls who are too ashamed to share their pain, the secrets I must carry, the fucking idiot who threw a dog out of his car window as s/he sped down the interstate, the fucking coward I mistakenly reproduced with, the sadness that what I do is never enough for she who matters most… Knowing that I live in a world that represses people based on gender, skin color and sexual preference, that politics will always trump morals, that selfishness is valued more than generosity…
Some days, it is all too much.
I try to remember my blessings, but some days… some days, they are not enough to carry my spirit. I am grateful, but some days… some days, I just want to throw up my hands, give into the sadness and hide from the world.
Today is one of those days.
So I guess I best check in!
It’s been one helluva summer. Between the dental work, the battle of the sicky-ickies and the depression, it’s really some wonder that I renewed my domain for another year. I promise to ramble a lot. It may get deep and sad and troublesome. I promise it’ll get better. It always does.
If you read my last post, you know that overcoming the fear associated with all-things-dentist has been nothing short of monumental for me. I have a long-ass way to go, too. But I’m dealing. Dr. P (the shrink) is giving me Xanax, which alleviates my pre-appointment anxieties somewhat. I suck it up and just do it.
Back in May, Dr. P prescribed me Zoloft. After nearly three months on it, I realized that it was making things a LOT worse. I had lost all desire to do the things I normally do. I was beginning to have really weird affects from watching the reality cop shows (like Forensic Files) I watch, too. After getting sick in early July and again in mid-July with a bout of vomiting and diarrhea, I was starting to obsess about germs: Was my food contaminated? Was I contracting the ick from the borked weather we’ve experienced this summer? We were turning the air off and opening windows and alternating back again a lot. Was it allergies? Am I allergic to outside atmosphere? Was my husband poisoning me? Was I not thorough enough when washing dishes and/or laundry? Was I ingesting toxins in my sleep (I have a history of sleep-walking)?
The shit was seriously disturbing.
If you know nothing else about OCD, it’s important that you at least know that there is no rationalizing with it. I knew most - if not all - of those scenarios is totally bogus. But I couldn’t stop obsessing about them. I wasn’t sleeping. The daytime hours were okay, because I could distract myself with television or internet or taking the kids to the park or whatever. But turn out the lights, lie in bed and my head would start reeling in a million different directions, especially during those endless days of feeling like knives were in my guts with the certainly that I’d never be able to eat a steak or Mexican food again.
Dr. P took me off the Zoloft and switched me to Celexa. He gave me some Ambien to help me sleep. I cried like a baby when I told him that I had suicidal thoughts. Not the same kind of suicidal thoughts I’d had when I was a kid wherein I actually think about ways to off myself. These kind were (let’s face it - are) more along the lines of feeling like there isn’t much to live for, that the world is hard and no matter how great a thing I do, in the grand scheme of time and space, none of it will really matter.
Unfortunately, the Ambien is evil. However, things are improving slightly. Despite not taking the Ambien, I’m sleeping better and obsessing less.
The hardest part of this depression verses the depressions I’ve experienced before are twofold: I’ve felt extremely anti-social (save for online socializing) and I can’t really discern why I’m depressed. Typically for me, when I’ve felt down in the past, it’s my style to call a friend and ramble on about my various complaints. Perhaps it’s because I can’t really pinpoint anything (except for perhaps financial reasons) that is making me feel sad and obsessive that is causing me to feel anti-social. I dunno.
The truth is, life ain’t so bad. Sure, I may never cause the profound changes in the world like, say, Martin Luther King, Jr. But I’m married to a wonderful, smart, funny man (who would never poison me), I have two healthy and happy kids (who aren’t really trying to make me crazier) and we have clean water, food, shelter, a number of creature comforts, friends and damn near all the makings of the American Dream.
I’ve won a substantial amount of scholarships and grants to go back to school. I have an appointment with an advisor in a week and based on how that goes, I’ll finally decide whether I’ll go back to school. I’m absolutely terrified that I’ll feel overwhelmed. After all, it’s been a task this summer just to drag my ass to the library to check out books I’ve never read. It’s been three and a half years since I’ve been in school full-time and if the circumstances aren’t just right for me to ease back into it, I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. Husband is still in school and trying (and somewhat succeeding) to beef up his own business. We have a toddler that requires a lot of my energy. A lot of my energy. Yeah, I’m intimidated by the prospect of being a full-time student again!
I’m knitting again. I’ve even been out to Knit Night. I’ve gotten a ton of compliments on the fingerless gloves I recently whipped out and am strongly considering starting a business on Etsy to sell items, but I’ve got to work out some details with copyright permissions and designs. I’d be absolutely tickled pink to earn some cash doing something that I love and is so therapeutic! It certainly wouldn’t sustain us by any means, but it would allow me to help contribute something to the household finances.
On July 30, Husband and I celebrated our third wedding anniversary. Since finances are tight and we don’t really have access to a babysitter, we didn’t get an opportunity to do anything special. A friend offered to watch Buddha and Joy tonight, so we’re going out to have dinner. I’m pretty excited! Afterwards, another friend is coming by and we’ll have a few drinks. Last weekend, we had a friend over for dinner. See, I’m starting to be a little more sociable!
I’ll even be making an extra effort to blog more, if only to post my knitting adventures or pictures of our food from dinner tonight or to carry on and on about how amazingly fast Buddha is learning. I could certainly fill a few pages with that alone!
Hope you have a great weekend 
It all began when I was 6-8 years old. I didn’t have my adult front teeth for long. I was in an accident and lost my front right tooth and root. A kindly stranger helped me, put my tooth and root on ice, called my folks and took me to meet them at the local dentist. The dentist gave me an artificial root (mine had died in the meantime) and shoved my tooth back into my face. He told my parents that I would need to grow more before real repairs could be made at around age 12 or 13.
I was devastated by my ugly smile. I stopped caring properly for my teeth. By the time I was 12, my parents divorced. My dad’s insurance would have covered the dental repairs but he was afraid of the dentist and wouldn’t take me.
At age 15, my mom took me to the University of Louisville School of Dentistry to finally get my smile fixed. She could afford it, but since it was a school and since I had neglected caring for my teeth properly for so many years, they wanted to take care of my many cavities first. Mom took me to that place once every other week or so for the next two and a half years.
My worst experience there was early. I had to have that front tooth pulled back out. Over the years, it had fused with my upper jaw bone. Under local anesthetic only, they pulled it. I truly regret that I hadn’t begged to be put out for that. It took nearly an hour to remove it entirely. I feel sick just thinking about it. The crunching noises and the different instruments they used are truly stuff of nightmares.
They fashioned me a retainer with a false tooth in it. It was the first time in more than half my life that I had a normal smile again. The dentists orders were to remove it at night, but I didn’t. It was uncomfortable to not wear it. And I still wasn’t taking care of my teeth the way I should have, so I ended up losing a second tooth - the one directly to the right of my right front tooth. They tried saving it with a root canal, but it was too late.
After those gruesome years, I finally, finally got a Marilyn bridge. I literally had a thousand dollar smile. For the first time in my life, I would smile broadly for photographs, teeth and all. It was just weeks before my 18th birthday. It’s unlikely I ever properly thanked my mom. I suppose I hoped my smile was how I thanked her.
But still, I didn’t care for my teeth the way I should have. I brushed and flossed regularly, but not like one should if they value looking normal and being able to chew their own food. In the weeks following Joy’s birth, I had my wisdom teeth removed. A few years later, I had to have two more teeth pulled because they had basically rotted away. In hindsight, I might have been able to save them with root canals, but I didn’t have insurance and certainly couldn’t afford to have paid for it out-of-pocket. Nevermind that all those years going to the School of Dentistry had infected me with the same dread of dentists that my dad suffered; I’m not certain that my mental health would have afforded me the procedures even if my pocketbook could. It was easier to get knocked out, have them pulled and be done with it than repeated trips, novacaine shots with ferocious needles, having to endure the dreadful sounds of the drill and suction tools and all the anxiety that accompanies everything dental-related.
I continued to neglect my dental health. I began to believe that many of my health problems were coming from my sick mouth, especially frequent headaches/migraines and a constantly aching jaw. But I ignored the pain, pushed through it until I could take no more.
About three months ago, I began to have a pretty bad toothache. It sucked but I had been dealing with mouth pain for so long that it wasn’t really new or preventing me from functioning. But it got worse. I finally confided in my husband about my anxieties. Heretofore, I hadn’t really shared with anyone about my fear of the dentist or - more specifically - dental work. He promised he would make some calls on my behalf and was very supportive regarding my anxieties. However, it slipped his mind and I suffered quietly because my dread was so immense, I certainly did not see fit to remind him.
Eventually, the pain became unbearable. Husband finally made the call and set me up an appointment. Lucky for me, I met with my shrink for the first time in the days just before my appointment with the dentist and he prescribed me some Xanax to help me deal with my anxieties.
When the day finally came, I took two Xanax before the appointment. I insisted on speaking with the dentist before having any work at all done. I told her all that I have said here and perhaps then some, emphasizing how my fear is punctuated by the sounds, sights and even the smells of the dental office. I informed her that I was medicated with Xanax, had brought a sleep mask and my iPod with the loudest music in my library and that I would be fine if I could use the items and try my best to pretend I was anywhere but the dentist’s office. She was patient with me, heard me out, told me what we would be doing first and that she would inform me of every procedure before continuing.
I had x-rays taken, the dentist gave a look inside at all my teeth and we discussed a plan of action. It was my intention to have the problem tooth pulled, but she told me that she believed it could be saved with a root canal. The insurance doesn’t cover those, however, and her office charges a small fortune for them. She suggested I look at the U of L School of Dentistry for just the root canals. Problem was that, not only did the prospect of going back there absolutely terrify me, it was two teeth that were causing my insane pain. I can’t afford one root canal, let alone two! I excused myself, went outside to discuss options with my waiting husband. I called my mom. I wept. Mom urged me to have the root canals and that she would pay for them. She told me I’d have to pay her back half, but she would pay for them now so I could get it done. I wept some more. I truly owe my mom the ability to genuinely smile, as well as being able to chew my food. She has - once again - saved my teeth.
I returned to the office and told the doctor that I would opt for the root canals instead of extractions. While I was outside discussing matters with mom and my husband, the receptionist had called U of L and got quotes on the root canals. The dentist then told me that she would match their price so that I wouldn’t have to wait or endure the agony of going back to U of L. I got mom on the phone from their office and she gave them credit card information while the dentist set to work and I set to make believe I was lying on a beach next to the speakers of Pantera and Slipknot and Clutch performing a concert I could only hear but not see. I still heard the drill. I pretended not to. I squeezed my eyes shut and had a white-knuckled grip on the arms of the dental chair, but I survived. I had two fillings and a root canal was started.
A few days later, I dosed myself with Xanax again and returned. I was supposed to have the root canal finished that day. I was apprehensive all over again because the dentist was different - he was the husband to the lady dentist that had worked with me at the first appointment. But he was a very friendly guy. He sat down with me and told me that his wife had explained my story and anxieties to him. Because I was still experiencing pain, he opted to do the other root canal. Both root canals are on the right side of my mouth (which is why I didn’t realize the toothache I had was two teeth and not one). The one that Mrs. Dentist started was the upper and only has two roots. The lower one the Mister did and, being a molar, has three roots. The procedure was terrible to endure, especially considering that good-natured Mr. Dentist tried to (in his words) desensitize me to dental anxiety by handing me a mirror and showing me the horror that was my near-complete root canal. When he was finished, he gave me another shot of novacaine, a prescription for antibiotics and pain meds (he was surprised that his wife hadn’t given me anything for the pain) and told me that I would be sore for several days, so not to come back for at least a week. He wasn’t kidding. My mouth hurt like hell for the next few days and I was in a constant state of loopiness due to all the meds I was taking.
I returned today to have the first (upper) root canal finished with the Missus today. Unfortunately, since all this time has passed since my last visit, I got to feeling all sick to my stomach again last night and this morning before the appointment. There wasn’t a lot of drilling, so it wasn’t too bad. The worst was sitting in that waiting room for 45 minutes with all this anticipation building up inside of me. When she was all finished, she suggested I return soon for some more fillings. My insurance only covers one visit per month, but I can have several fillings done in that one appointment and I need many more (although I will admit I honestly thought I would need more). I made appointments for the kids, too.
After the novacaine wore off today, I was in a lot of pain. I called the office and told them as much. The receptionist put me on hold for a long while and when she returned to the line, she said Mrs. Dentist said I had an infection and they’d call me in a prescription for antibiotics again. I fail to comprehend why - if I truly have an infection - this wasn’t mentioned and handled while I was in the office. I told the receptionist “Great. Now how about something for the pain?” She put me on hold again and when she got back on the line, she told me Mrs. Dentist said I would get pain relief from the antibiotics and to take ibuprofen in the meantime. By now, I’m truly thinking “What the FUCK?!” I’ll be calling them in the morning again and crying, because dammit, my face fucking hurts. Knowing my history, knowing my anxieties, knowing all the shit she knows about me, why would she want me to suffer?! With any luck, Mr. Dentist will be in tomorrow and approve me for some pain meds. Right now, I’m just grateful I had a few painkillers left from the last ’script he gave me.
I have hope that I can continue on this path of taking honest, good care of my teeth and mouth. Since my very first visit at this dentist’s office, I have brushed my teeth three times per day and flossed every single night. I have a long way to go: aside from the ten additional fillings I need, I also need a graft on my lower gums (a labret piercing ruined my lower front gums) and we have to somehow conquer some decaying that has begun to form behind my bridge. I have no idea how we will pay for it, as I assume my insurance won’t cover either of those procedures. I will also need crowns for the root canals I’ve gotten: my insurance does not cover those and they are seriously pricey.
It’s all very overwhelming. Daunting, even. But I have faith that I will find some way to overcome both the physical/mental anxieties as well as the financial strain.
I’m extremely frustrated and have been very agitated for the past week - ten days or so, so please disregard my hyperbole. I need to fucking vent.
About three weeks ago, I had a panic attack. I hated my job and completely attribute it to that fact. I would obsess over excuses to not go in and would start to feel icky when I did go in. In any case, it was a mild panic attack and I was able to mostly roll with the punches, particularly since we were slow and my boss offered to let me off early. My brother showed up and distracted me, too, so it passed quickly.
Still.
I had also started to have some shoulder pain. I’d wake up in the morning and my right shoulder would just ache. For me, that’s actually entirely normal. What isn’t normal is that the aching doesn’t wear off after some stretching and getting moving.
We had a nice little warm-up here in Louisville for a few days and I noticed that afterwards, when it cooled back down, I’d always feel extremely cold. Very unlike me. Very strange. Even stranger that I’d be cold and Husband wouldn’t be since he is the one that usually whines about the temperature.
A week prior to the panic attack, I met with my new doctor. It was the most bizarre experience I’d ever had. I needed a new ’script for Synthroid, though, and my annual blood test. I had been feeling more forgetful and losing hair again, so I wasn’t surprised when I learned (2 long weeks later) my TSH was higher than normal. The doctor increased my dose from 50 mcg to 75 mcg per day.
In any case, I wanted a follow up appointment with the doctor to go over my fasting blood panel and to talk to them about my shoulder and anxiety. Unfortunately, due to all the shit-weather we had, two appointments were canceled. In the meantime, when the doctor told me over the telephone that he was increasing my dose of Sythroid and prompted by some discussions in an online forum I visit, I decided to re-research Hashimoto’s and it’s symptoms.
So, it turns out that my anxiety and my shoulder pain might possibly be linked to Hashimoto’s. According to this link and numerous others I found by simply googling "Hashimoto’s symptoms" and "Hashimoto’s anxiety", my hypothyroidism may be the cause of these other, new and more severe symptoms.
For those of you that don’t know it, I was diagnosed with OCD when I was a teenager. Before I conceived Buddha, I was medicated for it. I had the anxiety very well controlled for the following 18 months or so. In fact, I believed my OCD only really flared back up when Joy was diagnosed herself. After reading the literature online, I’m rethinking that and wondering if it was just a symptom of Hashimoto’s, since my Hashimoto’s diagnosis was only 2-3 months after Joy’s OCD diagnosis. Seems entirely plausible.
In any case, I finally went back in to my appointment today. I wrote myself a note (so’s not to forget) about the things I wanted to discuss with the doctor. Shoulder pain, anxiety, headaches and how I wonder if they are all symptoms of Hashimoto’s. Now, I’ve suffered from migraines (most of my family members do) since I was a kid. Lately, the headaches seem to be a direct result from the anxiety which cause me to clamp my jaw together painfully, unwittingly. The meds I used to take were an enormous relief from those headaches.
I get to the doctor’s office, which is this little green house with parking in the back. I can only imagine the mess behind the closed doors and pulled curtains based on the mess I can see. The waiting area looks to have been a kitchen at one point, and while there is a frosted glass window that leads to somewhere, no one is ever behind it. Beyond the waiting area, there is a triage area where the doctor and - I presume - his wife both stay, complete with a cot that is covered entirely with medical files and other clutter. Just off of this area, there are two small rooms, which I presume to examination rooms, as they are both covered with privacy curtains (and there is no possible way that an exam can be done in the triage room with all the clutter). No doors are ever closed. When I walked in and sat down, I could clearly hear the entire conversation between the doctor and the man-patient.
On my first visit, the doctor’s cell phone rang while I sat in the only empty chair in the triage room, and - without a word to me (like, say, "Excuse me") - he answered it and promptly left the room. The woman just took over with the questions about my medical history. When her cell phone rang, too, she did the same thing the doctor did - answered it and ignored me completely. I felt cornered, since I needed meds. I should’ve promptly looked for a new doctor after this strange appointment. Alas, I got the ordered blood work and wanted to know the results. Plus I had all these new symptoms.
My appointment was at 12:30 pm. I arrived five minutes early, the waiting room was pretty full. I was immediately annoyed - they’d obviously overbooked their time slots. My irritation was only increased when the lady-I-presume-to-be-Missus-doctor called back two people that arrived after I had before me. The second lady, bless her heart, told the vile Missus-doctor that I had arrived first and that it was my turn. If only that had helped…
So, I pull out my note and begin trying to discuss my problems with this moron-with-a-medical-degree. He interrupted me to show me the blood work results were fine, that only my TSH was a little high (5.67 when it should be between 0.34 and 5.60). Swell. Can I get a copy of that? Well, he doesn’t have a copier, but he supposes I can have the only copy. He did a complete fasting blood work panel, but only tested the TSH (no T3, no T4), despite knowing that I have Hashimoto’s!
So, my shoulder has been aching… He asks if I injured it or if there was some sort of trauma. No, but I have been researching, I tell him, and I think it’s possible that it’s a symptom of Hashimoto’s, like the anxiety. Again, he interrupts me to tell me that a sore shoulder is not a Hashimoto’s symptom and begins explaining what the high numbers mean. I interrupt him and finish the explanation - I fucking understand that the TSH is high because the thyroid isn’t functioning so the pituitary gland is releasing more TSH into the bloodstream and all of that, thankyouverymuch. And he says that the thyroid (points at neck) has nothing to do with the shoulder (points at shoulder). Exacerbated, I request a referral to an endocrinologist. The disgusting Missus-doctor, who had been on her cell phone in the same room as us the entire time, is now off the telephone and interrupts with a hearty "We handle thyroid issues here. No referral."
I stood up. "Then I’ll find a doctor who will." And walked out.
What a fucking nightmare. I called the insurance company and asked for a new PCP. I also asked to file a complaint.
In the meantime, I did learn that I can get myself into a psych eval somewhere in town without a referral. I need to treat the anxiety if nothing else.
My apologies for the delayed absence. As you no doubt have read, things have been rough ’round here lately. It has made it hard for me to find inspiration to write. But things are getting better. Not necessarily financially, mind you. Work is still extremely slow and I am still having issues with colleagues and getting a decent section at work.
However, last Friday I was given a pretty good one and made the most I’ve ever made in a single shift at work. Further, our deposit on our electric bill was returned to us and it covered this months bill. Husband and I have both been actively looking for jobs and I did receive an offer for a waitressing job at another restaurant. I have mixed feelings taking the job when they are only open 2 days during Christmas week and 3 days the following week, particularly considering we are so broke. Husband applied for a job that sounds pretty promising. We should hear back by tomorrow. *Fingers crossed*
Things have been good in other areas of our lives, though. Throughout the month of December and in lieu of a more traditional American Christmas, members of my immediate and extended family are volunteering in our community at The Healing Place women’s campus. The Healing Place is a “Home Sweet Homeless Shelter” and recovery center for addicts and also serves as shelter for victims of domestic violence. It is immensely rewarding. It is also incredibly humbling and therapeutic for me.
Joy has joined the school’s Step Team. She’s been practicing and doing quite well and - most importantly - really enjoys herself. However, she has been really whiney and argumentative lately.
As for the boy, we went to the doctor for shots last week and he is almost 30lbs! He learns new words everyday, crazy fast. He is getting tall, too, measured by all the new stuff he can reach, thereby keeping us on our toes non-stop!
My kids are pretty great. Buddha adores his sissy and Joy has her moments when she will play with him for long periods of time (like last night when I took this picture of the two of them “fighting” over the spot on the rocking chair).
After a rough number of days with knitting, I’ve rediscovered it’s joy. I’ve started some projects and completed a hat (although - admittedly - I’m not terribly fond of how it turned out. The top is too nipply for my tastes! I will very likely rip that part back out and try to repair it).
I can’t imagine ever running out of things I want to make. When I told a fellow knitter that several weeks ago, she replied “That’s the best argument for reincarnation I’ve ever heard.” I am now working on a cable scarf. I’m using some acrylic yarn from my early stash and finding that it really is lower quality. Besides being a pretty boring pattern (that makes a beautiful fat cable), I really hate the way the yarn squeaks between the needles.
It’s official: I’m a yarn snob.
I’ve long felt destined for unhappiness. I don’t know that happiness is something attainable. I’d made my peace long ago that it would be fleeting. Now, I feel haunted by that very same knowledge. I’m frustrated. I’m discouraged.
When I was with xSO, I felt unhappy about most things: having to do everything alone, having been accused of things I otherwise wouldn’t have dreamed of, having to walk on eggshells, always afraid, sick with co-dependency of an addicted man, and on and on…
Now, a thousand miles and three years away, I am unhappy all the same. The sources are different: financial worries.
The paranoia has set in. I wonder if I am good enough. I wonder if some masochistic monster within seeks to sabotage so that I might find my rightful place in the world through co-dependency again.
My father is an alcoholic. Most members of my immediate family have at times indulged and battled addiction. Most haven’t made it. I grew up a passive-aggressive co-dependent. At some point along the way, I grew out of it. Now, it seems to have found it’s way back into my life after so many years with an addict. I’ve become non-confrontational. Me. If ever you’ve known me, you’d know this is quite unlike me.
So I’m working this go-nowhere job waiting tables that literally frustrates me to tears. Why, just today I cried. There are these two girls with whom I work that, since they have been there for a good while longer than I, don’t believe they need to do any actual work.
Again, I was shoved into the back corner of the restaurant where no decent, well-tipping human being would actually want to sit. We were slammed. One of the girls - one I actually like - had to leave early and instead of rearranging the seating chart to the advantage of those she’d leave behind, she totally screwed us. And the one girl (of the aforementioned two that refuse to do any actual work) is perpetually, unprovokedly nasty towards me. She made a snide comment toward me today that, had it been the me of 5-8 years ago, would’ve earned her a broken nose.
About a month ago, our restaurant brought in a new general manager. He observed us in action for about two weeks and then called a store-wide mandatory meeting on an early Sunday morning two weeks ago. He tells us we need to do a better job of covering our ink and piercings are no longer tolerated. He tells us we all need to purchase solid black shoes, they are to have no other color markings of any kind. After the meeting, I approached him. I made $60 working 20 hours that week, I’ve got rent to pay - there is no money for investing in shoes! He told me, quite flatly “You’ve got two weeks.”
Those two weeks are now up. This weeks earnings? $105. Let’s not leave out that I had to borrow $200 from my mom to cover the rent five days ago. I appreciate what he’s trying to do, but there is no money for new shoes, dammit.
Back to today. We are completely, chaotically in the weeds for hours. I kept getting double- and triple-seated; it was impossible to provide good service to any of these people. The kitchen was insane: we’re talking 30 minute check times for a half a sandwich and a bowl of soup. And my tips reflected it. I made $36 in 5 hours. One table I waited on racked up a $50 check and left me with a measly dollar. When it was all said and done, the restaurant looked as though a tornado hit.
I wanted so badly to cash out, hand over the money to the boss and walkout, cursing him and the rest of the staff all the way out the door in front of all the guests. Instead, I tuck my chin and keep working. I cleaned the tables in my section properly, I did my assigned side work and rolled the lion’s share of the silverware. And when I did finally cash out, I said nothing to the boss regarding the lopsided politics of the restaurant. I went out to my car and cried a good, hard cry.
I feel trapped, cornered.
I went through complete hell to get the Associate’s degree. Constantly fighting with the ex about just what exactly I was doing mingly with the natives on campus, staying up late to finish homework, juggling a part-time job at the campus bookstore and another part-time job waiting tables (at a GREAT restaurant where I earned better than twice what I earn now!), all while raising a little girl and playing babysitter to an addict with no sense of the real world past the buzz or the buzz he didn’t have.
I’m angry about it. All that work to push a broom and make peanuts. I apply to jobs I dare dream I might like and if I am so lucky to make it into the interview, they see my tattoos and/or piercings and decide they can take on someone else with the same credentials, the same qualifications and no ink, no piercings. And where is he (the ex, that is) in all of this? Not paying child support, that’s for sure.
Worst of all, I’m really disgusted with myself when I look in the mirror. I’m ashamed that I can’t get a decent job, guilt-ridden that it’s no one’s fault but my own. I am angry that I’m overlooked and under-appreciated at work. I’m angry that the economy is in the toilet and despite being qualified, I’m passed over for various jobs I know I would be great at. I’m pissed that I’m even considering applying at the three nearest fast food restaurants. Worse still, I strongly fear that I won’t be able to get work there, either.
When did I become this person that needed other people to validate her?
