I’m supposed to be writing my review, which is about as enjoyable as pulling teeth given that the template – in fact the whole process – is designed for a job I don’t do and I have to try to squeeze what I want to say into not-at-all-applicable fields. So, what am I doing instead? I’m looking for a new job. Yeah, great.
I’m getting to the point where I can barely bring myself to turn up in the morning – definitely not a good sign. I was thinking all of this through this morning while – legitimately, for once – looking at pictures of Angelina Jolie online. It’s not that this job is particularly odious (sometimes I almost quite like it), it’s just not going anywhere and every day that passes I stagnate a little bit more. So, a new job! But then just reading the descriptions made me want to quit these jobs too: same old, same old. I cannot summon enthusiasm for subediting, PowerPoint, Quark, magazines, corp comms or any of it anymore, if I ever truly could.
At lunch time I sat in a bar sipping orange juice (the resolutions are holding up) with L, my buddy and – I guess – big sister. She’s leaving to go freelance and will be handing in her notice soon. We compared notes: hate what we’re doing, don’t know what else to do, just clever enough to know that we’re not very good at what we do.
Last night TA dropped one of his periodic therapist-shaped bombshells: V (the therapist) thinks that we’re bad for each other, that we’re trapped in some unhealthy saviour/martyr complex. I don’t react well to these occasional scud attacks and sent up a few mortars of my own in response before getting a grip and calming down.
This morning I discovered that TA thinks that, if accepted, he’ll be able to take the pupster to university with him; and that there’s a job if he wants it at a post-production place…but he doesn’t. I stand back a little and try to be supportive without letting my selfish nature get in the way of my genuine hope that things will come good for him.
What am I doing here? What on earth am I doing?
I wish someone would show me a way out. Can I slip this yoke somehow? Is it fair to even think this way – I’m not sure that it is. Everyone has responsibilities, right?
If she were still alive, my grandmother would give me a right talking to about my self-indulgent whinging. She had to go out on to the sand in winter to pick up coal fragments (that had fallen when the ships were unloaded) for the family’s fire. My father left school at 13; this year (aged 74) he finally and unwillingly retired. My mother left school at 15; worked and brought up her younger sister when her father died and mother left them. People can do amazing, noble things. And I have been so lucky – I should be too busy counting my blessings to have time for all this moping.
I’m loath to start the happy pills again – my eating has been pretty good – but perhaps they are the only thing that keeps me plodding through the mud without thinking of how to make a break for it. Is there a sliding scale for this kind of thing? Am I allowed a certain number of suicidal thoughts a week before needing to be dosed with the opiates of the middle classes?
If you have an answer drop it in the comments box.