Therapy might just be therapeutic... who knew?

Today I went to my first ever therapy session with a psychologist.  Don't worry, I'm not going to air my dirty laundry here.  I just want to muse over the idea of visiting a therapist.  I found it an interesting experience and I would like to consider it as a thing unto itself.

I have to admit that I was nervous to go there and share my story, or rather all the stories that add up to my story.  I mean, I know it's a psychologist's job to be supportive and non-judgemental, but my experience with people is that they aren't always what they are meant to be.  So, how can you trust them with some of your darkest thoughts and closest guarded feelings?

Well, I mean, it helps that you can tell that this person was genuinely listening.  You can tell when people are distracted or don't really care.  Or perhaps worse is when you are going through something and someone points out to you that it could be worse.  They invalidate your pain, your struggle, your suffering.  It's not about how it could have been worse or how somebody else has gone through worse.  Your pain is real and it's your pain to deal with.

Perhaps that was the most surprising part of this for me.  I sort of expected the therapist to be professional but more distant.  I expected them to calmly and matter of factly tell me that what I was dealing with wasn't that bad and could be dealt with.  What I did not expect was for the psychologist to close their eyes like they were suffering on my behalf.  What I expected less was for them to explain to me that layers and layers of trauma were informing some of my outlook on the world.

Trauma.

That sounds like a harsh word.  But honestly using the word trauma was freeing.  It made me feel like I was allowed to be as crushed and upset as I am by what I've been through.  I don't have to compare or stand next to a measurement and be found wanting on a scale of who has dealt with the worst things in life.  It is irrelevant how many worse things could have been done to me.  The only thing that is relevant is how the trauma, my particular trauma, has left scars and what to do with it now.

In a way, acknowledging that my pain is real, was the kindest thing anyone could do.  And letting me know that it really is hard to sort through these things is in a strange way a reassurance too.  It means that if you struggle to fix it on your own it's not because you're broken.  It's because some things are too big to be dealt with alone.  And that's not some failing on your part.  If it was as simple as do x, y, and z, you would have done it already.

So, I very stereotypically cried through a majority of this, the very first session.  But it was cathartic in a way.  It felt more productive than the times I've cried over these traumas with friends.  Maybe because I was allowed to be completely and unabashedly traumatised by them instead of trying to keep it together and present a strong side so as not to worry anyone. 

So, I hope that seeing this professional will help me deal with my trauma going forward and help me reclaim my life a little bit.  I refuse to let past trauma and fear rule who I am today and in the future.  I don't know if this resonates with anyone but that has been my experience today.

Don't mind me, I'm just an Old Shoe...

Do you ever look around the world and wonder what's wrong with it until you reach the conclusion that it's you?  I'm an introvert which is really just a fancy way of saying I'm a bit shy and I enjoy people watching more than actually living.  And recently, with all my down time and my people watching, I've come to a sort of small epiphany.  People are as varied as the shoes they wear.  There are the loud ones and the sleek ones and the sporty ones.  Shoes and people can be functional and flirty, colourful and dark, captivating and invisible.

I've come to the conclusion that I am the comfortable shoe.  What is wrong with my life is me.  People fall quickly into a routine with me because I'm comfortable.  I can go long or short distances, I'm easy to please, sort of versatile.  I'm ok with adventure but I'm not the hardcore hiking boot or the tough as nails steel-toed boot.  I can go out dancing but I don't ooze charm or sophistication or sexiness.  I don't chafe, or annoy.  I'm just easy.  People wear me every day for awhile and then suddenly they trade me in for a pair of fancy, new, shiny, unworn shoes.  Maybe they go sportier or more professional.  Sometimes they choose flirty and totally sexy.  It's hard to say which direction they'll go after they've thrown me in the corner.  All I know is that they have no trouble leaving me behind.  I'm the comfortable shoe.  I'm meant to be put on every day til they tire of me.  Worn through the tight places, muddy places, dark places.  Used til I'm falling apart at the seams.  Then, just as is my purpose, I'm put in a corner or a dark cupboard and never thought of again.

Well, that is until I'm needed all of a sudden.  Then just like that I'm expected to be as accommodating and comfortable and flexible as ever.  After months of being ignored and left alone in a corner I'm suddenly brought back out and supposed to be happy with being put on every morning when they need a quick pick me up run, worn through all the tight and sad places, and used up til I'm emotionally tearing apart at the seams.  I'm supposed to be content with this because I'm the comfortable shoe that everyone loves having around because I'm so easy and so comforting.  All the while knowing that maybe tomorrow, maybe in a month, they will bore of me again and I'll go back to being forgotten in the dark.

Ah, the good old comfortable shoe.  Perfect for a day of mixed activities; easy to kick off when you feel like something else.

I'm just one of those people.  I'm willing to listen and reminisce.  You can drag me out of the cupboard and I'm still me; worn-in just the way you remember and find so comforting.  And the funny thing is that while I hate being a comfortable shoe I don't hate who I am.

I think being there for people is generally a nice thing to do and I wish more people were a bit more on the comfortable shoe side of the scale.  It seems like most of my friends are specialized shoes.  I know hiking boots and business shoes and dancing shoes and sexy shoes.  I don't have a problem with any of them.  I love them for who they are.  But sometimes I wish I knew a few more comfortable shoes who could be there when I need to go through tight, dark places and get a little wet and muddy.  We could go on adventures, sit at home, and yes, even hang out together in the corner when our other friends are busy doing their thing.

But my professional shoe friends are always in business meetings.  My dancing shoe friends can't be bothered if the situation doesn't call for music.  Sexy shoes are too busy flirting with everyone to notice I'm around unless they need a comfortable shoe friend.  Hiking boot friends have no trouble with a little mud but they're nearly always out scaling some new mountain and having a marvelous time doing it whether you are there or not.

Maybe I should form a society for people like me, comfortable shoe types.  Maybe we could get together and be supportive of one another since it's clear that sexy shoes are never going to slog through the mud by our side no matter how many times we are there for them and business shoes, are, well, too busy.  We could call it SCRAPES (Society for Comfortable Reliable And Perfectly Eclipsed Shoes) and underneath that last word we can write in tiny letters "Or people, you know, whatever..."

Get a REAL job? Excuse me?

Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, I am proud to invite you to the world's best showing of complete and utter MESS.  Tonight I present to you a thing of such pathetic and poor construction that it must be concluded that amoebas have better design, higher purpose and more dignity.  Allow me, ladies and gentlemen, to present to you.... drumroll....

MY LIFE.

I know, I know.  It was in my last post that I made a decision to avoid people til I had calmed down and found some peace with myself and my fellow man.  However, I utterly failed.  I was not able to bring myself to publish this post til just recently, but you will not believe the disastrous timing I have.  One day I vow to calm down and avoid conversations about my state of unemployment, and then, on the very next day, this happens.

I went out to buy food.  A seemingly harmless pursuit, wouldn't you say?

Wrong.

I did not know it at the time but this very act of leaving my house for food caused me to fail in my resolution and left me not only speechless but also horrifically angry and depressed a mere handful of hours after the commencement of my noble and clever plan.

The journey to the shop started well, as with most things that go unaccountably and terribly sour.  It was a pleasant enough day and I began with a stroll to the post office.  Along the way I met a pleasant man and we shared a short conversation, near a particular (one might even say renowned) stretch of pavement, about how concerned and terribly saddened we were by the 2pm appearance of rowdy inebriates. We shook our heads, exchanged pleasantries, and wished each other a good day when we parted a few minutes later.  All in all a good journey so far.

The post office was found precisely as expected.  The queues were orderly, the stamps cheap, and the post satisfactorily sent on its way.  This letter was only a few days late in being sent because I am not always prompt at replying to letters and even less so at actually posting them.  That matter concluded, I admired some of the decaying grandeur of another age, mentally taking pictures of the pleasing architecture, even if it was covered over in peeling paint, and I made my unhurried way to the store in order to procure essentials.  Shampoo and laundry soap made it into my basket along with a few various chocolate consumables and the few "good-for-you" foods that completed my shop.

I was feeling productive and happy.  So far everything had gone as I had hoped.  Everything was uneventful.  I made the long walk home and was pleased that my troublesome elbow was not causing me too much pain on this day.  It was not long before I arrived at my corner of London.  I made it inside my building and then, I noticed the people.  The people waiting for the lift.   

Which people, you might wonder?  Well I hardly knew that I would be so violently opposed to them in a few minutes, but here they were.  A couple, slightly older, and a solitary gentleman, they waited with me silently at the door to the lift.  The couple had also been shopping and when the lift door opened we had a bit of bother fitting all four of us and our shopping bags into the lift comfortably.  It is a narrow lift and it is usually best for me to be at the back as I live on the highest floor, as did they apparently.  The solitary gentleman said nothing and exited on the second floor causing a bit of reshuffling and a comment from the older gentleman that it was a bit like Piccadilly Circus in our lift with all the bumping into people, coming and going, and never seeing the same person twice in the building.  I laughed politely and he decided to continue this conversation.

Glancing at his watch the older gentleman noted the time, then glancing at me and noting my age and shopping bags he ventured this comment "It's a bit early for you to be off work, isn't it?"

My mistake was in acknowledging this question and answering it politely "Yes, well I'm unemployed at the moment, unfortunately."

Had I learned nothing?  Did I not listen to my own rant and impassioned decision to avoid this situation and this conversation?  No, apparently I did not. (In my defense I did expect them to leave the lift any second and leave me in peace).

He replied "And what would you like to do?"

My second mistake was to answer again.  You see I have been raised to treat my elders with respect, which includes, in my book, being polite, truthful, and not refusing to engage in seemingly polite conversation. So I said this "Well, I would like to work in museums".

The grey haired man's tone changed at this and he practically sneered "What as a museum cleaner?"

I politely replied "No, more curatorial work"

At this point the older man turned towards the lift door as we were nearing the 19th floor where we both lived apparently and muttered something about people these days wanting all these fancy jobs.

The lift door opened and with excellent dramatic timing he wheeled his shopping trolley out of the lift and shouted, without even looking at me "Get a REAL job!" as he stomped towards his door.

Then the woman with him jostled past me, hitting me with her shopping as she said "This is the 19th floor" as if I would have forgotten when I also live there, making no apology for the rude comment just shouted at me, and left.

Speechless I exited the lift and stared at their backs as they entered their flat to the right of the lift while I fiddled with the keys to my flat located just to the left of the lift.

I entered my flat feeling horrible and angry.  He asked me what I wanted to do and then told me it wasn't a real job.  Not a real job?  Every curator across the world, who has studied for years, and then works for years, to preserve the history of the world for you to see would be truly thrilled to learn you do not view their jobs as real, I am sure.

He may have been excused for saying I should try to get a more entry-level position or a more basic job if I had waxed eloquent on the difficulties of finding museum work and whinged about this being the sole reason for my unemployment.  He certainly cannot be excused for such a comment when he asked me what I wanted to do.  A personal question about my preference or desire, my dreams and career aspirations should not be met with such judgement.  What right does he have to ask?  I should have told him it was none of his business in the first place.

How dare he ask me what I want to do and then assume I'm not trying to apply for anything else.  He asked what I wanted to do.  I told him.  He shouted at me.  I cannot imagine a scenario in which this is acceptable.

And what in his mind qualifies as a REAL job?  People who get paid are engaged in real jobs.  I could say that I want to be a professional cloud watcher and he could scoff that I should get a real job.  Nobody I know of gets paid to lie on a hill and watch clouds.  But that's not what he meant.

He clearly didn't think highly of cleaners with his little sneer.  And cleaning is a productive and taxing job, certainly real, and it contributes to society.  So, what does count?  Is it that no education is required for a cleaner that makes it a job to sneer at?  I'll have you know that to be a heavy objects handler in a museum, a manual job, you must have certificates in the use of forklifts.  I have two degrees and I am not qualified to do their job.  However, if education is the requirement, curators typically come with quite a bit of education.

Perhaps the real problem in his mind is the so called "fancy" nature of it.  I'm guessing he thinks I should get a job in retail because museums are too "fancy".  Or maybe he thinks that something in business is better.  However, it is typical for business jobs to require education too.

I think what he really means is that my goals are too lofty and I should settle for a more basic entry-level position and job.  But he has no idea what I've been applying to.  How dare he judge me that way based on an innocent answer to a question about my preferences.  And if I apply everywhere else what is wrong with admitting that I would prefer to work in museums?  Excuse me for having aspirations and dreams.  Pardon me for wishing to put my fancy education to a good use in a fancy job.  

I had to stand in the lift and the hallway with a man who thought it appropriate to pry into my life and then judge me without any knowledge of the particulars of my circumstance.

He might be pleased to know that I have accepted a retail position where I work full time babysitting books and customers you do not seem to understand alphabetical order.  I wonder if he thinks that working myself to the bone lifting, moving, organizing and selling books is a real job.  The reality is that I get paid and it is a real job, whatever he may choose to say on the subject.  And the truth is that I don't care.  Now that I'm not emotionally vulnerable, i.e. unemployed, I really don't care what he thinks.  Or what anyone else thinks.  It may not be my dream but it does pay for my chocolate habit.

And as for all those people who have anything to say about it.  I give you Roy from the IT Crowd...

Unemployment brings out my hermit side

Being under-employed makes me even more antisocial than normal.  I know, that's hard to imagine considering I'm not the touchy feely type and I've already admitted to being a misanthrope.  But really, I'm not Oscar the Grouch, I promise.

It's just that sometimes I just really don't want to talk to people.  Especially when I just don't feel like having any conversation that remotely deals with my life.  It's impossible to have meaningless conversations that don't even tangentially come into contact with some facts about your life.  For instance, any conversation with someone you have just met or hardly know inevitably ends up here:

"So... what do YOU do?"

Stop me if I'm wrong... Do your conversations with new people always end up here eventually or not?  Yep, that's what I thought.  So, this is how mine typically end...

"Oh you mean me?" I ask hoping desperately the answer is no.  Stalling for time with this last desperate question.

"Yes, I feel like I've been talking too much about me.  So, what do you do?" persistently and annoyingly curious person.

Damn.  Did it occur to you that perhaps I would prefer to talk about anything other than myself?  No, of course it didn't.  And now you've asked me the worst question possible.  The one that leads to all the others.  If only it was polite to stomp off every so often without a word.  Sigh...

"Well, at the moment I'm volunteering at a museum and looking for work." I finish quickly drinking something so I don't have to see that look in their eyes.

The worst part of being unemployed isn't the financial trouble, though that is worrying, or the job hunting stress, though that can be exhausting, or the self doubt you wake up to every morning, though that is depressing.  No.  The worst part of being unemployed is talking to everyone else about it.

Don't get me wrong, I do not enjoy being penniless and living like a pauper in one of the world's most expensive cities.  Thank you London.  But the worst thing about it is you have to admit to people that you are either under-employed or unemployed and now all your private doubts and worries are suddenly the subject of public debate.  Oh, what are you looking for?  Are you qualified for those positions?  How long have you been unemployed?  etc.

All your flaws are suddenly layed out for everyone to see and talk about and laugh at.  Aired like so much dirty laundry.  For some reason everyone believes they have a right to delve into your personal life here.  If you had a job the conversation would go, "I do this, I love it," they would get bored and then move onto another less personal topic.  But if you don't have one you must have failed somewhere and they believe they are allowed to poke around in this fascinating subject that is your life til they find out why.  Stomping around on your feelings and raising up your doubts in the process.  

The only reason to be unemployed, of course, is that you failed.  Not that the economy is terrible or that you made choices better for your health that possibly made your career path more difficult.  Nope, there is not other explanation.  If you do not have a job currently you must be at fault somehow.  You failed at your previous job or you are somehow responsible for failing in the job search process.  You aren't applying to enough jobs, or the right ones, or you aren't writing the cover letter in the right way.

Being unemployed AND being forced to talk about it,
leaves me feeling a bit vulnerable.

Never mind that you already wake up doubting yourself and your abilities during this time.  Never mind that many vacancies are filled internally and you didn't have a chance to start with.  Never mind that it's physically impossible to send out more job apps on some days (because you woke up and applied all day til you went to sleep).  Clearly, it is somehow, in some way... all... your... fault.  And worst of all they feel like they need to tell you so.  These irritating people feel the need to point out all the places you could possibly have failed.  Just in case you didn't know all the ways you might be failing.

Please pick me.  Please?  I am trying really.

Let me be clear.  Friends offering suggestions is not the same thing.  You can suggest different jobs to apply to or maybe even help edit a cover letter without being this sort of obnoxious intruder.  These are the sorts of questions and judgements you have to endure from people you have never met before or barely know.  Their judgements are least welcome and interestingly enough the most forthcoming.

Maybe I should start answering this question with increasing doses of sass.  Oh me?  Yes, I do lots of things.  I do laundry, I read, I paint (but only in the afternoon when the light is right), I travel, I talk to friends across the world.  Sometimes I skype with my parents or spend time volunteering at the museum.

Maybe I should leave it at that and let them imply that I'm unemployed.  Maybe I should make them ask me what I do.

"Haha, laundry.  NO, I meant what is your job?"

"Oh, so you want to know about my personal finances?  Well I do declare, the impertinance of some people..." and I will storm out with high heels and my perfectly polished pearls reassuring me that I am a lady of.... wait, I don't own pearls.  Ok, maybe I shouldn't opt for this one.

Maybe I should go a step further with the cheeky reply and invent my own job.

To do that I need to set straight some definitions.  I think it is reasonable to define profession thusly.

Profession: the use of skills and abilities particular to the individual in the pursuit of financial stability

And if we define profession in this way then I can confidently say that I am a professional applier.  I apply and apply and apply to jobs of every description, salary and location in the pursuit of financial stability.  Now, I am not successful at achieving stability in this profession, but success is not part of my definition.  It is all about the doing.  And so am I.

Maybe my new strategy for this question should be more cunning.  Perhaps when I have been trapped in this corner of the conversational ring and I am no longer able to dance my way out I will open with this little number.

"What do I do?  Do you want the grim, sarcastic or fictional answer to that question?"

People, I am assured by many studies (on choice and on the anchoring effect which suggest people pick the middle option), when presented with three choices, two similar options, one of which is slightly more appealing, will typically choose that and ignore the third unrelated option.  So, if I give them a choice of truth that is grim, truth that is sarcastic, or fiction, I am guessing they will opt for sarcastic, as the more appealing of similar choices and the middle option.  And I'll pull out my "my life is fabulous I'm a professional applier" routine, which I will no doubt have perfected in no time.

Then again, they could surprise us all and persist in being nosy and annoying and demand the sordid details of my floundering career.  If this is true, I shall not hold back and maybe, just maybe I'll make them sorry for asking.  Next time take a hint, if I do not want to speak about myself just continue talking about you.

People and their questions.  Pah.  Mutter mumble mutter mutter.

Maybe I should just avoid talking to people for awhile.  At least until I'm less grouchy, or maybe until I've sorted out some things in my life, for example, finally found a job.  Then again, I'm in a bad mood and I'm thinking that my old plan of becoming a hermit permanently is sounding like a better and better idea.  People.  I don't really like people.

So, please excuse me while I go be antisocial and grouchy for awhile.  Don't worry, it's probably just the weather and I'll be cheery again tomorrow.  I hope...  Disastrous rainy country!  Grey and miserable...

Mutter mutter mutter....

Polygonal Melodrama

Some people have the great misfortune to be plagued by people.  Yes people.  Maybe I'm just a misanthrope, that is still up for debate, but it seems to me that people have an alarming tendency to behave like weeds.  They pop up everywhere in vast numbers and there is almost nothing you can do to prevent them from turning up when and where you do not want them.  The problem with weeds is that they seem to be unhappy with simply growing in your garden.  They seem to like coming equipped with spines and thorns to make your life miserable while they slowly choke your beloved plants (cauliflowers, roses, what have you) to death, much the way people pop up with their unwanted drama and plague you with it mercilessly, slowly strangling all joy and happiness in your life.

Ok, fine, maybe I am a misanthrope.  If you dealt with the people I deal with, you might be too.  Don't get me wrong, I do like some people, for instance my housemate.  She brought me an adorable cauliflower cake from a tea shop the other day.  Relax, it's shaped like a cauliflower, not actually made from cauliflowers.  That would be the most rubbish cake ever invented, but I digress.

Cauliflower Cake from Betty's tea shop. Adorable, no?

So there are a handful of people I find acceptable.  The rest I'm rather tired of.  Whether you are a magnet for dysfunctional individuals, or you simply find yourself in the middle of a ridiculous amount of drama, you know what it is like to be plagued by people.  Much to my dismay I have occasionally found myself in the middle of a whorl of drama, either my own or someone else's, that I somehow managed to stumble into.  For several years now I have also had the great distinction of being a dysfunction magnet.  Sometimes the drama and dysfunction runs so deep that even years of study could not uproot it or untangle it.  So don't try.  Yes, I am advocating that you join me in giving up on worrying and contemplating.  The only solution to this sort of problem is chocolate.  Or cake, that works pretty well too.

So stop trying to figure out if you are involved in a love triangle, a love square, a love pentagram, a swirling vortex of drama or any other type or configuration of polygonal melodrama.  Don't even begin to try to understand it, or fix it.  Do not bring in any other verbs to deal with it.  Save your brain the trouble.  Break out some cake and enjoy life. 

Don't try to untangle things.  Trust me it's not worth the effort.  Just cut yourself loose from the snaring knots of strife.  Admit defeat.  Raise the white flag and declare that you are through trying to decipher the meaning behind the insanity.  If anyone or anything tries to get in the way of your timely retreat, don't just throw in the towel, throw it at their head.  Then sit down, put your feet up and eat some cake, preferably chocolate, but I'll let you decide that one. 

After all, you've just won the greatest victory of all.  Freedom.