Interlude

It probably doesn't need to be said again, but I have to: getting laid off from my old job has been such a RELIEF. I can't tell you how many times I've paused in the middle of some humdrum activity and just let out a huge sigh of relief. It's not unlike that wonderful sensation of unclasping your bra after a long day at the office and letting the girls breath free. I hear. That is, I've heard that the ladies don't like...

Ahem.

The last time I was in such a situation was about four years ago. My move down to Seattle from Anchorage hadn't been planned too far in advance; I believe I had about three weeks to get my affairs in order before I left the Last Frontier. Once I arrived, I found myself in a situation that I could only describe as painful; I had no job, no savings, and was living with my mother. At age 30, that's not exactly good for the old ego. At the time, I was full of vim and vigor, and determined to get on my feet as soon as possible. I was optimistic enough to believe that I could find work with alacrity.

I can be so silly sometimes.

What followed was  roughly 18 months of misery and depression. When I wasn't filling out applications, I was slumped in my room, trying to distract myself with copious binge watching of netflix. It wasn't until after I finally got my job and traded one style of misery for another that I realized how much time I had wasted. During all that time, I didn't do much of any writing, nor did I work on my acting, or any other possible hobbies that could have lifted me from my slump. It was only once I was getting stressed out at work did I lament the sand at the bottom of the hour glass. I recall stomping out of work after one hellish evening and vowing to myself that if I were ever struck with the opportunity to have an unfettered schedule, I would seize it the way Garfield seizes lasagna.

And now here I am.

I cannot help but feel as if I'm in an interlude of sorts. Barring any unforeseen complications, I find myself with a few months time in which I can focus on my poor neglected book without fear of homelessness and starvation. That isn't to say that looking for a job isn't a priority; I have no desire to try and live off of unemployment for the next six months. But, I am afforded the time and leisure to actually focus on finding a job that is right for me, rather than frantically grabbing at whatever fruit happens to hang lowest to the ground. Especially if that fruit is coconut.

I hate these things. It's the consistency. And the taste. 

But simply finding a suitable job isn't going to cut it anymore.

If the past three years at my former job has taught me anything, it's that I'm not truly cut out for the traditional job thing. I don't respond well to authority; I'm rebellious, smart-mouthed, and plagued with temper issues. I've never been the type who is satisfied reporting to a boss. I've come to realize that I'm just not suited for that kind of life. My biggest fear is that I'll end up getting another job, and being stuck in the exact situation I was in before: stressed out, angry, and feeling caged.

Pictured: the average 9-5 worker.

And since I'm sure no one wants to read another three years worth of angst-ridden blog posts about why my life is shitty, it would behoove me to find an alternative route. Thus, henceforth I will be focusing my energy on finding a way out. I don't know exactly what I'll do, but something has to be done. My clearest path is, you guessed it, writing.

One of the things that I find so attractive about the idea-- the goal-- of being a published writer is that I would be my own boss. I could do something that I like doing to make an honest living without answering to some corporate mouthpiece willing to treat me like a pawn and sacrifice me as such for the sake of "business needs." Frankly, I'm tired of being someone else's bitch in return for essentially pennies.

How many is your dignity worth?

But really, who isn't?

So the interlude will likely last for some duration while I work on how to escape the infinite loop of Samsara. Getting employment-- work that offers a decent wage without sacrificing my physical health and mental well being-- is just the first step, and most definitely not the end goal. Not like last time, when I was blinded by the prospect of large pay checks and getting out of my mom's house.

Beyond mere work, the real goal is to get to a point where I can look forward to the future with optimism and hope, rather than bleak despair. It's saying something that I can actually say with a straight face that I believe it's possible.