"Like skin under a torn off scab" was probably not the best thing to say when describing how people at the office look after a usual day of work, but it felt apt at the time. My lead, the manager of the front of the office, looked me square in the eye and nodded; she got me. On a regular day, we are eyebrows deep in other people's trauma, she said. And that was the day I decided to move to New York. I had gotten too used to the grit of it, maybe even almost gotten used to it, and when you are getting used to women begging for money to replace the lock on their door for the third time you do need to have your head examined--or bring that head somewhere else entirely. And New York was were my friends were, so off to NYC it is--was. It made matters easier that after nearly two years my husband still hadn't made a friend and was refusing to try. Maybe it would be easier in New York where we already have friends--my friends, I thought, but they are mostly his friends no...
Daily I do the same three things, such is my penury: I issue cards, I process applications, and I comfort people. Only the names, the numbers, and the stories vary. At times I find myself disassociated, floating above it all, looking down upon my life now, expecting to see the Ghost of Christmas Present there, beside me. I issue cards, I process applications, and I comfort people. Sometimes all of that for one person, sometimes just one or two of those things. Between these moments, if I have one to spare, I read a page of a book or check my phone, disassociating that way instead; I have learned to use my mental Illnesses to my benefit. This is how we succeed in Capitalism, isn't it? I ask myself if I can continue floating down this river Lethe until I retire; the benefits ARE good, after all, and eventually I will have more days off to get away from this, and wouldn't that be enough—having fewer days of this? My answer changes daily, but I do nothing because I am too tired ...