The State of My Soul

Job hunting is a soul stealing enterprise. I've lost all motivation. I stay at home, cuddle up with a quilting project and dear old Netflix as a perfect spring day rolls by outside. It's depressing. More accurately, I'm depressing.

I'm easily irritated, often insulted, and generally downbeat. Getting one thing done each day feels like a major accomplishment. I have lists of phone calls to return and my desire to connect with anyone is so low I'd rather sit and home and feel guilty about not calling them instead of just doing it.

It's not that I'm against unemployment. I'm not and theoretically, I LOVE unemployment. I have hobbies coming out my ears and, with no job, all the time in the world to do them. But it's spring and spring has meant farm work or fixing bikes. Winter is for bunking down or heading out of town. In my yearly cycle, spring means money and my bank account is not very green these days. I'm suppressing a slowly rising panic that reminds me if I don't make money now, I'll be stuck in a dreary MN winter, and my blood runs a little cooler just thinking about it.

Further bristling my whiskers in the general sense that I'm stuck, that I lack control over my life. And, to some degree this is true. It's not the whole truth, but it needn't be in order to make me (somewhat unfairly) peevish. I'm living with my brother and SIL, their two year old twin boys, their dog and cat. It's a smallish house and things are cozy. I often pee in the laundry tub downstairs and it can take a few days of stratigizing to get a timely shower or my clothes washed. This does not bother me so much. Afterall, the place is very affordable (no cash changes hands) and makes being unemployed a thousand and one times less stressful than it would be otherwise. They company is good and I adore seeing the boys everyday. The dog drives me a little nuts and the cat can be frightening vicious, but also sweetly adorable with the softest fur. What drives me the most crazy sometimes is just that I lack any real control over my space. More specifically, I suppose, is just the fact that I don't have real space. The house isn't mine, the yard isn't mine, and most of the decisions aren't mine. I love to bake bread, but my SIL is gluten-intolerant and baking, therefore, is out of question. In theory I could do it, but it would require such attention to deal and careful time strategies that it doesn't really seem worth it. On a shitty day of unemployment there is nothing really I'd rather do than turn up the stereo, block out the world, and make a giant and through mess of the kitchen. To laboriously prepare an unreasonably large batch of chicken soup, starting with water and a chicken carcass, plump full of scratch dumplings with some of them perhaps falling from the ceiling. But given that there are five people sharing a small kitchen, two of them on toddler-eating-schedules (i.e. like five times a day with a present adult to orchestrate the events) any cooking needs to be neatly contained, toddler friendly (no knives left carelessly at the edge of the counter, no front burners when boys are present, etc) and carefully cleaned up afterwards. It is, afterall, not my kitchen, and leaving dirty pans on the stove or a bowl on the counter is not particularly courteous. In addition, three of the other inhabitants are vegetarians. One of the little boys has a possible peanut allergy. If I cook onions, I must be careful about proper ventilation so the house doesn't stink all night. I worry about this an extra measure simply because I do not have a very good nose. I have been around small children with reeking pants and not noticed. My SIL, however, once walked into the house hours after I purchased about a tablespoon of asafetida which has been put in a zip-lock in the basement and said, "Is there asafetida in the house?" And all my grievances are minor compared the benefits of being here. But the little things have just been grating harder lately. I suppose because my general stress level is up.

The other factor is the bf, a charming and thoughtful fellow I'll call P. P is great, amazing even. We've been together over a year and he's started dropping not-so-subtle-hints that he could be with me, well, forever. To my surprise, this does not alarm me as much as I thought it would given my cold feet and fear of commitment. In fact, I can hardly imagine life without P anymore. And, shockingly, I don't really want to. This is the first relationship where I haven't either been plotting how to get out or being terrified that he was thinking that very thing. It's smooth, functional, comfortable. There is no drama. Just the way I like it. But that means all my remaining decisions are also not my own. What about P? I want to give the job industry a big middle finger and hop my bike and ride to Maine to visit some friends. But what about P? I want to take the next flight to Ireland and stay on some farm for a few months working for room and board. But what about P? I want to go back to Thailand, get my Dive-Master certification, become and instructor, and live on a tropical island for a few years. But what about P? Now I have to stay here and that means finding, and accepting, some crappy ass job.

But it's not just P. It's my ailing father. Everytime I leave for more than a weekend I expend vast amounts of mental energy worrying about dad. Worrying I won't be able to get back if something happens, trying to always be kind of near an airport so I rush to norther MN should conditions warrant.

But it's not just that, either. My sister just had a baby. My nephews just turned two and I'm starting to think that they love me almost as much as I love them. I think about them all the time when I'm away. It's the fact that I've worked oh, so very hard to have a family, a community here. I've found it, settled in, made myself valuable. It would downright stupid to drop it all.

So here I sit. Job options are grim and possibilities for leaving are nil. I have little control over my space and instead of feeling claustrophobic by the fact that my entire living space is hemmed in by floor-to-ceiling books that don't belong to me, I nestle in, made a little mess, and crawl into it. Somedays I hardly come out at all. Spring is passing me by and I don't have the energy to enjoy it.

It sucks. It's lame. I'm frustrated and there is no one to blame. Always one to accept a little more guilt I would say I'm to blame, but I'm not really. Well, I am. Had I stayed in school like a good girl I probably would a have a degree now and better job prospects. Instead I spent my time doing other, equally valuable things, they just don't pay as well. But that's another post.

Night,
Megs