Work Sucks

I have been working outside the home for 6-and-a-half years. I dread it every single day. Even today, I was off, and I spent all day *not* dreading going to work tomorrow. I have plans to go to a grief counselling group on Wednesday and I've been dreading it for weeks. I start my last semester of college in a little over a month, so I haven't started dreading that yet, but give it a couple of weeks. The closer it gets, the more anxiety I'll have.

I was agoraphobic for 10 years after high school. Actually, I barely graduated because I started getting intense panic attacks in 11th grade when I would just *think* about going to school -- so I wouldn't go. After high school, I slept for about four years, and then I became a Christian and got a job *inside* the home so that at least I didn't feel completely useless. I woke up one day, twenty-seven-years old, and as far away from achieving my dreams/goals as I had been a decade before. So I got a job outside the house and I got my *** back to school, and now I'm about to graduate with an Associate of Arts degree.

I have never called in sick to work due to social anxiety, nor have I ever had to either go in late or leave early due to my agoraphobia. This is why I call myself functional. But I hate social situations. I hate standing next to someone in line. I hate passing a neighbor or the mailman on the street. I hate sharing the break room with a coworker (mood-dependent -- I actually love my coworkers and running into them in the break room is one of the few times we get to bond). I hate talking to my friends on the phone, I hate "doing lunch", I hate parties (especially surprise ones in my honor).

Most of all -- I hate, hate, hate going to work. I hate knowing that I'm going to be there for hours. I hate knowing that what chains me to the register is bondage of the mind and spirit. I hate the comments I get about my weight. I hate the comments I get about people of other races. I hate when stupid ******* people can't put their stupid ******* **** back where they got it from ("No, it's okay, just leave it there. Nobody has anything better to do than clean up after you."). I hate missing my dead mother at work and not being able to cry.

I really, really, really hate it when people tell me that I'm "always happy". Yeah. That's why they pay me the big bucks. Smile! Smile! Smile! That is my job. Do you want to know how many times I smile when I'm at home, by myself, with no one watching me? I don't know. I don't need to count them.

This is my beef with humanity: people do not like honesty. Here I am, in the middle of the night, venting to an anonymous internet because there is no ******* way I'd be able to say all of this to another person without immediately balancing the conversation with a joke or two -- or using my tone of voice or facial expression to belie my words. People are insecure. I have to constantly let them know that I'm not going to hurt them, using body language, facial expression, tone of voice. And people are judgmental. Nobody wants to accept that everyone is multi-dimensional -- a mishmash of ideas, moods, and behaviors. If we act one way, that is who we are. If we then act the opposite way, we are hypocrites.

We need each other to be one-dimensional because we need to know who/what we're dealing with. Friend or Foe? Hold you poison or grapes? (<--Dylan Thomas) So we create "isms" to help us deal with that question. If you're of a different race, you're suspect. If you're physically unattractive, you're suspect. Male or female, old or young, wealthy or poor, Christian or not, Gay or Straight -- if you are what I am, I can trust you. If you are Other, you are Enemy.

Wow, why would I ever be reluctant to leave the house? Mystery.

I'm tired. I'm tired of being tired. I'm tired of being tired of being tired.

I'm tired of being too scared to do what I really want to do because I'm so concerned with doing what I think other people want me to do. That's really why I hate being around other people -- I'm insecure; I compromise my authentic self to be what I think other people want me to be. But the rub is: I'm right. I know what people want, so I give it to them, and then I resent them for taking it.

Don't buy my smile. Don't buy my singing, which is a mask for my unhappiness, as a sign of happiness. Don't buy my bullshit answers to your small-talk questions. I'm not fine. I'm in more pain every day than I ever even imagined possible. And I am so damaged from my childhood that I still believe that I'm worthless, more often than not. Open your eyes. See my pain. See past your pain to mine, so that at least for a moment, I don't have to swim in it alone.

But I know you won't. I'm alone. I can be in the middle of a giggle and be hit with the knowledge that I don't really mean it. It's not funny. Nothing is. But when I laugh and smile for real -- it's because those little moments between catastrophes are so precious. I couldn't live without them. So I smile and I lie and it's all the same because some part of me is laughing all the time and some part of me is crying all the time and I'm not a hypocrite and I'm just a multitasker.
theree theree
31-35, F
Jan 6, 2013