The days pass since my return from Buenos Aires, each much the same as the one prior. I wake up and think, “I don’t have an income. I need an income.”
I then spend the rest of the day alternately “looking for a job” (sort of) and lamenting the precarity of my situation. Add in a cup of doom-scrolling and a quart each of casting about, fretting, and pacing, and you have some idea of my reality at the moment.
Every day, nay, several times a day, nay—constantly?, the voice in my head says, …oh, so many things. You would wither if I told you. It goes something like this, “It’s your own fault. You didn’t make yourself safe. You’ve known for years you needed a proper side gig to protect yourself from this eventuality.”
That’s one line of reasoning, and it goes on and on to all kinds of charming corners and crevasses.
Another goes like this: “What’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you applying for jobs in your field? Why aren’t you sending out 20, nay, 50, applications a day? Why aren’t you networking like mad? Why haven’t you told everyone you know you’re looking for a job? You know that’s what you’re supposed to do.”
Another goes chides, “Why are you so stupid? How can you expect to get a job when you can’t even figure out how to drag a photo from Google photos to your desktop? What even is the matter with you? Are you senile? Are you actually senile?”
Another equally charming friend takes another tack. This one appears to be me, but she is also pernicious. She says, “It’s not that difficult, you know. You can do this. Just xyz. Just xyz. Just xyz.” Just. That word is so helpful, you know? Just do it. The subtext of course is, why haven’t you? It’s so easy. Why can’t you? (What’s wrong with you?)
Another… another says, “I’m scared. I feel really alone. I’m confused. I don’t understand why I feel so cornered, so alienated, so paralyzed, so ashamed.”
Is that my real voice? Is that me in there, struggling not to get stomped on?
She also says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
And I am sorry. And I am ashamed. I am ashamed of so much. I am deeply ashamed I have lost my daughter. I’m ashamed I burden my son. I’m ashamed I have all the hallmarks of a “bad parent” when I wanted nothing, nothing more than to be a good one.
It’s true. That’s all I ever really wanted.
The very word “career” always sent me into fits of delirium or caustic, ironic laughter.
But, why?
I got stuck somewhere along the way, it seems. I got stuck.
The inside of my head is not a friendly place. It’s not a place you want to visit.
I wish it were.
I wish I could go there.
In my yoga class last week, my teacher quoted a Rilke poem. It went like this:
Ah, not to be cut off
Ah, not to be cut off,
not through the slightest partition
shut out from the law of the stars.
The inner—what is it?
if not intensified sky,
hurled through with birds and deep
with the winds of homecoming.
— Rainer Maria Rilke
The word “homecoming” got my attention. The concept, the idea, that “coming home to oneself” could be, should be, beneficial, a salve, a comfort. Why is that not the case for me? Why do I not welcome myself home? Where am I? Who am I? What is home? Where is home?
What does that mean, to come home to oneself?
There is so much to write about. And yet, I freeze for weeks, months, and years.
When I say there is so much to write about, what do I mean?
My dearest, oldest friend recently said to me, “Emotions are contagious.”
I know she’s right. I was immediately chagrined. Also, terrified that I would lose her, and everyone I love, because I get so frightened.
It’s true. I am so scared.
And yet. And yet, when I was at my tango class the other night, a woman said about my visit to Buenos Aires, “You went alone?”
I heard the marveling in her voice.
It straightened my spine a little.
Yes, I thought. Yes, I went by myself. For me, this isn’t frightening. I’m not even sure why it’s scary for other women. (And men? I don’t know.)
If it’s not going to South America alone, then what is so frightening to me?
But, wait. I’m veering off track. My dear friend, who said emotions are contagious (she is right; they are), also listened while I lamented, and I heard myself say, “I lost my job, my daughter, and my home. I feel de-stabilized. I am de-stabilized.”
Suddenly, a dim ray of compassion found its way into my soul, my heart, my body, my mind. Tears pricked the backs of my eyes. It was my turn to marvel. And marvel I did. I thought, “Ouch. That’s true. It’s true, you left Guido Street on your own volition, but you were happy there. You were there for 26 years. It’s your home. It’s your street. It’s your neighbors (all but one set) you love.”
All of that is true. I left Guido. I needed a change, or felt that I did. I also got driven away, unfortunately, by mean next-door neighbors who threatened to shoot me. I felt, honestly, unsafe. That’s the truth. But also true is the fact that I was bored. I never wanted to die at Guido. I felt intuitively that I needed to shake things up so that I could make a bold move. Or two.
My daughter. I haven’t written much about that. Because. Well. You might be able to guess. I mean, there are so many reasons. Denial, certainly, is one of them. Disbelief is another. Confusion is another. Pain is another. Shame is another. But, the truth appears to be, my daughter, whom I love way beyond the moon and back, wants nothing to do with me and has been icy for a full three years. I can’t even begin to explain what happened, or how it’s gotten this bad, or why and how it’s gone on for so long. But, it’s deeply painful. It’s unbearable, actually. I struggle with it every day.
And the job. I was laid off around Thanksgiving. My last official day was December 8th. And the jobs I’m qualified for pay considerably less than what I was earning. The reason for the layoff, for me and about 100 other marketing employees, was a “Future of Work Initiative” — yep, you guessed it. AI. Artificial intelligence came for my job. I knew it was coming, but I thought I had about three years’ runway. I thought wrong.
Perspective.
Talking to my dear friend gave me much-needed perspective. Suddenly, I saw my life from 25,000 feet instead of three feet. Before we spoke, I was cringing and afraid, buried in the weeds, feeling a foot about to stomp me, not knowing where it was or from what direction it was coming.
Speaking with her allowed me to see all of the cards on the table. It helped me see how unfriendly my own headspace is. And it provided a modicum of compassion for myself and my situation.
Honey, you need help, she said. Get help. Go to Al-Anon. Get a therapist if you can. And WRITE.
That’s what she said. Write. So, here I am.
This is me, writing.
This is me. Hurting.
This is me, scared.
And this is me—already feeling better BECAUSE I WROTE.
When am I going to fully understand that I always feel better when I write?
When will I fully embrace the notion that it doesn’t matter what happens to whatever missives I happen to pen—that I just need to send them out there and let them fall where they may?
When will I full understand that I am not my own friend, not yet anyway, that I need help getting away from the voice in my head, and that help is out there?
I stand corrected. I’m breathing better. Do you know how good it feels to take a full breath when you’ve been breathing shallowly for hours, days, weeks? It’s glorious, I tell you.
The breath is glorious.
Ah, not to be cut off…
"Is that my real voice? Is that me in there, struggling not to get stomped on?" - so powerful. Thank you for this piece