This one gets a little personal, a little touchy-feely so if you are looking for another bitter diatribe against the press, et. al or society as a whole, I fear you will be disappointed.
I'm a Generation X'er certainly and I wear my day-glo badge with pride, I turn the radio up loud on 80's Friday nights, I'm a denzien of You Tube scouring the retro ads and TV shows of my youth. I remember exactly where I was when Challenger exploded on that frigid Florida morning in 1986, (Ms. Gilbreath's 6th grade math class) when President Reagan admonished Mr. Gorbachev to "Tear down that wall!" and that miraculous night in 1990 when that wall ACTUALLY DID come down! And in the last few months, I've also attained a new Gen X badge, my Gen X Unemployment badge. Yep, there, I've said it, I'm unemployed.
I am very aware that like so many of us, I'm just a statistic, another name on one of the thousands and thousands of resumes that whiz to and fro throughout cyberspace, resumes that carry our education, accomplishments, statistics and our hopes that maybe, just maybe, this will be THE ONE that defies the odds, lands us the job, and for the first time in a long time we can finally breathe. The ONE that will release us from the torment of haunting Craigslist, Careerbuilder, Monster, Hot Jobs, etc like Mr. Leroux's phantom prowling the dungeons under the Paris Opera House.
Every time the phone rings my heart leaps into my throat and like Pavlov's dog, my pupils dilate and my mouth waters with anticipation of what I'll say...what they'll say. Perhaps this time will be THE ONE, or at the very least I'll net an interview. Even an interview says that they kind of...want me.
After months of this process, interviews for positions that never materialize, the stress of analzying and scrutinizing every word I say, every word they say, worrying over things like "was there lint on my trousers ?", "did I sweat too much?" "is there any lipstick on my teeth?","did I answer that question properly?", am I too old, too young, underqualified, overqualified", I broke down. In a scary way. No, not suicidial or anything like that. I can't become an alcoholic, I can't afford to drink! Can't smoke, can't afford cigarettes (plus the smell of cigarette smoke makes me nauseous, there is that) In a way it became almost worse. The longest and most protracted period of depression I have ever known, in short depression has become a state of being for me. I never knew or could have imagined the hell that true depression really is. The chronic insomnia (on the plus side I have greatly increased my knowledge of old movies, Time Life music offerings, and episodes of Married with Children), the weird almost flu-like body aches and pains, the total lack of appetite, lack of interest in anything. Thinking back to how glibly I would toss off the phrase, "I am so depressed!" when faced with trivial things like a relationship not coming to fruition, a bad haircut or not finding a pair of shoes to match an outfit, makes me grimace in shame.
On this past weekend though, I had an opportunity to be the recipient of something so remarkable, a respite of sorts from the depressive state I live in, which came to me in the most unusual way. To celebrate the wedding anniversary of my mother and stepfather, members of our family took a day cruise. I have to admit, while wanting to be there for my parents, I equally DIDN'T want to be there. I wanted to be holed up in my cocoon, not facing the questioning stares of other family members, "does she have a job yet?", being irrationally angry at them for having jobs, having loving spouses, children, disposable income. I put on my happy face though and for a time I WAS actually happy enjoying the company of my family and their children. My sadness though was never far from the surface no matter how hard I tried to ignore it. Something in me has been broken and I've been at a loss to discover how to 'fix the hole (whole)'.
The game changer came in the form of a green plastic bag. My mother throughout these weeks and months has been my lifeline, patiently listening to me as I poured out my fear, my worries, listening as I vented my spleen over the colossal unfairness of life, the abandonment I felt by the government, former employers, friends, and even God Himself. She listened and I selfishly thought, "She doesn't really get it... I mean she's got a job, she's not suffering like I am...". I cringe even I type these selfish thoughts.
Before I left the docks that day, my mother handed me a green plastic bag, the kind that newspapers come in, and as I waited for the car to cool down before driving home, I opened the sack. What I found there were weeks of newspaper articles covering every topic from depression to interviewing tips, books to encourage me, books that she'd picked up for me knowing the kinds of subjects I like to read about, a favorite movie on DVD. In short, love. Right there in a plastic newspaper sleeve. She WAS listening to me all the time. I cried, all the way home. In fact, I cried as I wrote this.
But, some tiny shoots appeared today in the barren sands of my heart. And today, for the first time in a long while, I remembered to eat breakfast...
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