I got up today. I’m not ready for work and I have a short time to write, which I should be using to get myself ready to leave. The dishes are in the sink, waiting. They’ll be there when I get home. I can’t express how much I hate my job. I don’t hate my life. I only hate my job, my things I can’t afford to fix that need fixing, that people don’t do what I want, having to do housework while listening to the family complain about having to do housework…
Went to the doctor yesterday. She says it seems like I’m on track. I didn’t ask her about a few things I should have brought up. I’m still depressed, but I want desperately to be on an upward wave. And maybe I am. I’m writing, aren’t I? Work was a trigger this week. Fucking stupid. I’m being sold a company line that basically prevents me from getting a raise or a promotion. So I’m depressed. I don’t want to find another job, I want this one to care about me. And my manager says she does, and in some ways acts like she does, but when it comes down to reality, she doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself. And she finds ways of blaming me for her indifference, just like my previous manager.
My check engine light will be on when I turn the key this morning. I took it to one of those quick-stop places and had them read the code. It’s some kind of sensor. But I also need new tires, and my gas cap sensor is also not registering correctly, because I tighten it and it says it’s loose. And then the engine is starting to run roughly, and I need a tune up. Or something. And it’s going to be on until I can afford to fix it. So I like my car, but I don’t like not being able to afford to fix it.
I admit it. I’m selfish. I want my family to care about me. I want my job to care about me. I want to be able to afford normal things: a more frequent date night. car repairs. an occasional steak.
Since my job doesn’t care about me, I’ll be looking for a new one. But I hate doing that. It means interviewing, trying to explain why I’ve stayed 10 years at a job where they don’t give a shit and I haven’t made any strides in advancing my career, and why do I want to do something different, and what do I want to do? I don’t fucking have a clue. I wish I knew what I wanted to do for a career, besides writing.
I want to write and get paid for writing, but I want to write what I want to write. I don’t mind assignments, but I want to be free to write anything about whatever the assignment is. And no one wants that, that I know of. I want to work on my novel, but I can’t quit my job and harness that energy to write the novel, because we’d be homeless and foodless and naked before it might start making any money, and instead of everyone commending my stamina and patience, they’d be calling me reckless and irresponsible.
I’m even selfish about my reputation, see?
So I’m going to that job, I’m going to do my best because I value my reputation, and I’m going to earn a half a day’s pay for a full days hard work. Because even if they don’t care about me, I’m going to get everything I can do, done.
If I were deeper in depression, I might decide to stay home, but I don’t want any attendance issues. So I hope the car starts.
Have as good a day as possible. It doesn’t matter what other people think of you. It matters if you take pride in doing the best you can. I’ll try to keep believing that, instead of playing the personality games and sucking up that I KEEP seeing people do at my job. Those are the ones who are earning enough.
Anyone hiring a writer who can stay in the bunker and just research and write? I’ll write for fifty cents a word. I’ve written for a little less money in the past. But that was only part time. I need something I can do full time.