Moving On... Out

Vintage Skeleton Key Pin Set from Pretty in Peace

My heart temporarily sank when I listened to her message. I had gotten a call back from the woman who would be informing me of the panel's decision of whether or not to induct us into the transitional family. She had said the decision reached was a "yes and no". Huh? What the hell does that mean? Part of me deciphered that as they really really wanted to help us, BUT, for some reason or another we didn't meet the requirements. I've always been met with those feelings after researching or inquiring about a service that is geared toward women with families or women who have been victims of domestic violence. Because I've always fallen short under the law, I can't help but always feel that I will fall short under their definitions. Negative thoughts aside, I eagerly redialed her number.

She told me that we had not been chosen to move forward with their program, however that didn't mean that we hadn't been chosen. There was a mixture of excitement and rue in her voice, so not only was I anxious, but confused. Turns out, we've been accepted into another program, which will be a stepping stone to being accepted into their program. For the homeless, a prerequisite for getting into many housing programs is that you've been referred by a shelter or other shelter-esk facility. Since we've had no prolonged shelter stays, I frequently find myself explaining up and down how the lack of a shelter stay still classifies us as homeless and in need of services from whatever housing agency I am seeking. In a nutshell, this organization has cleverly made arrangements with their sister organization, a shelter, one that I am assuming will not be anxiety inducing so that we can be referred back to them at a later date.

Tomorrow, to the facility we will go, where beds and privacy await us. Unlike the initial program that I applied to, this facility will be free of charge, allowing me to save and prepare for the phases ahead. Let the games begin!

Follow Through

I almost feel like I'm being tested. Like they want to see just how much I want their assistance. As if they are judging whether or not I'm really willing to go that extra mile. Of course, it could just be a matter of timing, a matter of the amount of business that can get done in one day - dates and times are more important to me than ever these days. Will they call today? Will they want to move forward with us? Will they deny us access to their collective? I hope not.

Chasing Transition(al)

I followed through on a transitional housing resource today. Its one that houses single parent families in particular, offering various on-site supportive services, mental health being one of them. It would have been nice to save up during a shelter stay, but the one we stayed in over the weekend was not a good fit for me. While Emma was pretty oblivious to our experience, I wasn't really feeling the twice daily forced bible study and the den-mother-esk woman who kept shouting out HALLELUJAH and shhhhhing every crying, whimpering child in the building. All the talk about death and eternal suffering if one did not drink the Kool-Aid made me wanna cry too. It was kinda nice to be off the couch and in a big bed though.

If all goes well this Thursday, we could have beds of our own soon. Depends on what they decide after our interview. I can't imagine a reason why they wouldn't wanna move forward with us, but we'll see what happens. We need this to come through for us. I don't know how much longer I can survive couch hopin', having our things and mail at various different addresses, invading other people's spaces.... I literally came apart at the seams last week! When I say we really need this opportunity to come through for us, I really mean we need this opportunity to come through for us.

Thinking positive thoughts, thinking positive thoughts...

Now Taking Applications for the Mental Breakdown Club

Photo Credit

Maybe it'll be a win-win, because, you know, most of the greats were/are mentally disturbed in some form or another...

I've always said that, if I could have chosen my mental illness, I would have chosen to be either bi-polar or schizophrenic. No, really. Once you're able to recognize your manic states and decipher the who's who of the voices in your head and the friends in your circle, productivity and creativity take the forefront. Very few productive or creative moments are bore from depression, and those that are aren't necessarily arrived at organically, but rather dug from deep within. Deep rooted expressions of pain are painfully beautiful. Unfortunately, mental breakdowns are not.

Pet Peeves

I guess sports are to men as soap operas are to women.

I don't think I'll ever understand the logic behind amplifying the television in order to quiet the voices of children. Noise only begets noise, it sure as hell doesn't silence it. And I'll tell you what else it does, it beckons migraines. My head is much happier with just the sounds of intense play. I'm quite crazy with the bellowing sounds of baseball coming from the idiot box. I can't tell you how much I despise sports. Not just baseball, and not just any one sport in particular. All sports. I don't get excited for playoffs and superbowls. I don't huddle around the television with snacks and team spirit. I'd rather just be excluded all together. Every single day, since His return, the television has blasted sports in some form or another. During a time when I'd rather unwind, process the events of my day, and prepare my mind for what lies ahead, I am instead trying to drown out the sounds of static noise, and plot my move. The exact moment when I will snatch all the pillows off the couch, put our pajamas on and "go to bed" - because that is the only indicator that we are ready to settle in for the night. The time on the clock doesn't mean shit.

I was waking up every couple of hours last night as a result of one loud month or another. 2am - 3am - 4am - 4:50am - 5:20am, eyes peeking open at 6:29am, and alarm ringing at 6:30am. I yawned through my training at work today.

I asked if there would be headache-free days ahead, and was told yes. I sure hope so.

The Time Is Now!

She had had another unexpected inspection that day. She hates when they just pop up without notice, or give a same-day notice that an inspection is imminent. No time to clean (read: no time to hide shit behind other shit), just a forced reaction to authority figures and their clipboards. She's always angry after they leave. Mad that they've seen all that there is to see around here, even though their notes are for the purposes of making things better around here. Embarrassed by a cramped space, again, reactive, throwing things out over there, pointing and yelling about things over here. And when she almost knocked over a glass collector's plate she had been given as a gift, catching it in her hand, and attempting to put it back in its place, she completely lost it. "DAMMIT! You can't get to ANYTHING around here". Apparently, my things were in the way. She snatched a bag of crochet supplies from a larger tote when she grabbed for the tote. With both bags in hand, she slammed them back down to the floor, repositioning them. I thought I was gonna have a panic attack. I couldn't stop the tears.

Then I got caught. My effort to disguise my sniffles, took away from my efforts to wipe away the tears before they fell. Emma noticed my glassy eyes and asked me if I was crying. I told her no. I lied. The anxiety swelled up in my body, and radiated through my left hand like an electrical current. The left side. I am so unkind to the right side of my brain. I took my episode to the shower, were I could cry without being made.

Today, I went out in search of something healthier. I collected some resources on transitional housing, mental health services, and homeless shelters. I printed some affordable housing applications. I fantasized about having a place to think clearly, without the sounds of screaming, fussing, bickering and frustration hammering away at my sanity. I want to be content. I have a job that I enjoy, am excited that Emma is excited about her new school year, I am trying very hard to be happy. Happiness shouldn't have to be this hard to hold on to. Its time to move on.

Being Expendable

I wonder what all of this means. What does it all really mean?

Another rejection. It would be nice if the rejection could at least come after the interview. I've never even made it to the interview stage. They don't have to see me in person to know that they don't want me working with their establishment. No matter how much I try to prove myself on paper, its just not enough. How can I be what these people want when I'm not even sure what they are looking for? I illustrate all the ways that I can meet their needs, all the ways that my skills can be beneficial to them, the ways in which I can do the job, and their response is that they went with someone whose skills better fit their needs. Why can't someone just give me a chance? With each rejection I fade more into the background. With each week/month/year that passes, my resume becomes less desirable, less relevant.

Was I really supposed to be working in an office - gaining experience, while going to school full time, raising my daughter on my own, dealing with death consecutively, never making a full recovery from being raped, in and out of depression, already not getting the most out of the education that I was getting? Did others around me do it because they were "only" raising children while doing school and work? Or because they had a boyfriend or husband living at home, bringing in the money, leaving them to focus more on family and academics? Did I not try hard enough? I did try! I did more than just try. I went to work. Sometimes forfeiting my classes and school work to be in the office longer, so I could see more money on my paycheck, to feel like it all was worth it. I felt like I had finally found my "place" when I was in that office. I felt like a contributor. Like I made a difference and was needed. I had made friends, was a part of the pack, or so I thought.

A year passed, and still, I was thinking ahead, about how I could be of service to the company. I was nearing graduation, so then I would be available full time. I was looking at housing closer to work for when it was time to relocate, I was even thinking about how my first love of journalism and my interest in photography could benefit the company. Since "I" was already the Marketing Department, I wanted to apply myself more during showroom travel. Photographing the showroom for the company website, making a suggestion to the CEO and COO that we should become a completely electronic based office where documents were concerned. I never got the chance to make it known that I saw myself as a permanent part of the company. I had started sensing that there was something not quite right with my scheduling. I had tried making myself more available, and would be told that I wasn't needed for the number of hours that I was available, when months earlier, my availability was welcomed. Then the day came. I was asked into the CEO's office, he gave me a speech about no longer being able to afford to keep me (due to the economy), told me I had two weeks, and if I needed a letter for my next job he'd be happy to write me one. There was no farewell party for me, like there had been for a coworker who had left the office. No one said anything. No one emailed me when I didn't return. It was as if I had never even been a part of the company. As if I had never shared anything with the people in that office. It was such a hurtful ending. I'm obviously still affected by it.

And now, as I search for a comfortable, fulfilling office assistant job, I find that companies are looking for people who have all of this experience. Asking a minimum of 2 years, which isn't much to someone who actually has worked for 2 years. My last experience was the longest that I have ever been at any one job. One year and 5 months. I feel like, in every aspect of life, I always come up short. Like, no matter what I do, how hard I may work or fight, I come up short. After everything that I sacrificed to be available for my company, my ass got kicked to the curb, and my time there isn't paying off for me in the way of experience, I still come up short. I'm reminded of that every time I open a new job ad or apply to one.

For anyone who reads this, I already know what you're probably gonna say. "Its the economy." Yeah, I know all about the economy. I'm sick to death of the fucking economy, and being told repeatedly that its the economy. Its worst than being told, its not you, its me. Which brings me to a random thought: What the fuck is Arnold doing making an appearance in a movie? With the state of California, his ass should NOT be on any big screen unless he is gonna be putting the money from the film into the pockets of Californians! AND, its not essentially just the economy. People are getting jobs. I know this because I am friends with some of the people who are getting jobs. So, what the fuck am "I" doing wrong? Perhaps you will suggest that I do more, such as take another class, take a different kind of job - anything that's available, go to a temp agency. Simply put, I'm really doing all that I have the capacity to do. I just really need for things to change. I deserve for things to change. Nobody deserves to invest so much of their time and money into a University, believing that in doing so they have insured a future free of poverty, only to end up homeless, with no possible leads to employment. So many that I know chose to go to grad school because of this very reality. They didn't want to face it. I chose to face it head on, because I desired to work. I needed to work - a change in my routine, a new direction in my life. I've been in a classroom for 21 years straight, I'm fucking tired of that lifestyle! I believed that I would find something.

So what now?

Continue applying for jobs, hoping to be chosen.

Try to think of ways to be more creative in my approach to employers.

Navigate the trap of being over qualified and/or under qualified.

Sharpen my computer skills through online program training.

All while functioning at half capacity, and being extremely depressed.

This is What It Feels Like

Photo Credit

I remember back in the day, when I used to team up with my bestfriend. We'd put on our best, hop on the bus, and hit the town plazas, and then the local shopping mall. We were in high school. Things were much simpler then. All we needed to do was return the applications that we'd collected on a previous trip, in the manager's hands if possible, and wait on our call backs. And there were always call backs.

I was a retail girl, an exterior painter, at the same time. I was around 15, and had gotten a summer job painting houses. It was a great job, and I continued for 2 more summers after that. That first summer, I found myself clocking in at 6:30am and clocking out at 9pm. Right after I started my summer job as a painter, I had gotten a call back from the Gap. I didn't want to turn down a regular job just because I had a summer job, so I worked both. I'd paint from 6:30am to 3pm, and work the Baby Gap section and fitting rooms of the Gap from 4:30pm 'til 9pm. I worked at that Gap store, for $6.25 an hour, until the location closed about 8 months later.

And later on, it was Longs Drugs. I worked a mean green smock, and was a lightening fast cashier, who knew her shit, and was comfortable being a good employee, but not comfortable catching 2 buses, taking 2 hours to get home, late at night, in a rough neighborhood. The night I was approached by a man in a car, was the night I had to quit that job. And the day my manager offered to coordinate my schedule with the schedule of a friend who had a car was the day I went back. And the day it became too much for said friend to offer me a ride, I quit for the last time.

I've never not wanted to work. I've never not pulled out all the stops to get a job. But seems like I've always, always had to sacrifice, or be sacrificed when it comes to work. Quit for lack of resources, be laid off due to site closure or site greed, pass on working altogether because my academics and being present for my child had to be put ahead of earning an income.

Its been 8+ years since those high school days, 2 years and 4 months since I was laid off from my last job, and nearly 8 months since I left school. Its a lot less simplistic these days, and the sacrifices are greater. There is more at stake today than there was back then. I am suffering more, and in a multitude of different ways today than I was back then. This current experience, current state of being, is unlike anything I have ever known. Today, the resumes and cover letters have replaced those two paged retail applications, car keys have replaced the typical 31-day youth bus pass, and the call backs have fell completely silent. Yes, the economy, I know. However, I still feel like I am that same high schooler, trying to rise above, trying to be just a little less poor, except this time, I'm not the only one who is hungry.

Identity Sharing

One of the hardest things about being homeless is becoming a victim of the transference of mannerisms. To look up one day and realize that your laugh-speech-gestures are not your own, but those of the people that you are sharing a space with, is one of the most frustrating things ever. I first became aware of the fact that my identity could be stripped during my teenage years. I had been working a summer job, spending lots of time around the same group of people, and one day, I heard it. I laughed a co-worker's laugh. I was surprised when the sound came out of my mouth. I wondered if anyone else had noticed it. And as an adult, I have my moments when I notice that I am not entirely myself. Again wondering if anyone else has noticed. Then I start wondering about the possibility of transference beyond mannerisms.

I see that my daughter is just as impressionable. Her laughter-speech-behavior is being oppressed by the laughter-speech-behavior of a very troubled child. Every time I hear one of his phrases come from her mouth I cringe, then I fear that she might be losing her own identity, and then I get furious that I plucked her out of her comfort zone and planted her in the middle of chaos. I find myself hating the fact that we are subjected to forces beyond our control. I will truly be elated to come to the end of this adventure.