Plight of the lumpy loser who tries to look on the bright side

I’ve been feeling like a lumpy loser the past few weeks. Still no jobs, nothing new to write, bla bla bla. Then of course, I do the brilliant stalking activity of comparing myself to every other journalist friend and associate of mine who has a job, beating myself up even more … so smart!

So in an effort to lift up my spirits a little, here are things I am proud of, assets, accomplishments and other fun junk:

I have a car! (gas is another question…)

I have a house full of lovely, impossibly cute animals!

have a university degree already (two of them!).

I understand sciency stuff!

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I have a loving and supportive partner!

I have a step-son that constantly challenges me and makes me get off my butt to make sure shit’s clean in the house.

still have a sense of humour!

I can afford to pay for rent and bills (for now)!

I have amazing, supportive friends!

I know how to string a sentence together and get paid for it!

I know how to work with clay to make cups, bowls, plates, vases, etc!

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I have a comfy bed!

I was able to get an asthma pump without a prescription the other day!

My mom is cool!

My Nana is deteriorating, but she’s amazing!

I have supportive and wonderful in-laws!

I’m not homeless!

I can knit and crochet blankets!

I’m bilingual!

I have lots of experience!

I can start something and follow-through!

I can make really good food!

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I have nice eyes!

I have clothes that still fit!

Sneezing feels good!

… you get the idea. It’s small and big stuff. But there ya go.

It’s hard not to be in the dumps right now. Job hunting and the baby issue are enormous columns, shooting lasers at me every time I move. I wake up sad and in a panic. It’s not an easy time right now.

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Sheepish in the face of life

I’ve experienced deep, painful, traumatic things. Been thrown into deep emotional and physical trenches and clawed my way out. I see down the trench. I’ve grown, wizened up, and healed.

Why, then, am I so nervous for a simple skill-testing exercise that will help me find a job?

I imagined I would be beyond such worries, but I guess I’m still human, and shy, despite the events of the last year.

It’s not time to give up. I can do this. Hell yes, I can do well, even. But I’m scared.

On giving up

Henry would have been a work-week old today (that’s five days if you’re unemployed like me).

I still very much want a baby – one that lives. And I’m to-the-universe-and-back frustrated that I don’t have Henry to hold in my arms. If I sit and think about it too long, I may just start scratching the walls.

And, to be indiscreet, we’re not ‘as lucky’ as we were the first time. We’ve even gone for fertility tests. And I’m trying not to panic. It feels like parenting my own live child is a far-fetched fantasy that is painstakingly easy for others to achieve.

And I’d like to whine and complain for a few seconds about my misfortune in job-hunting. It seems that for the first time in my life, the well is dry. I’ve never had this much difficulty finding work.

 

Maybe there’s a gnome following my applications and story pitches through the interwebs, whispering in prospective employer’s ears about my shortcomings, eclipsing my virtues and sending me to the poorhouse, or just flat out telling them not to open my email because I smell like cat farts and wet my pants every day at 2:15, scaring off other employees. Or the gnome is telling prospective editors and publishers that I write like an elementary school child, and don’t know how to use proper punctuation or compose a decent nut-graf (one of the first sentences that tells you “oh, that’s what this article is about!”).

I is an JERNALIST!

I is an JERNALIST!

 

It’s not rock-bottom – it’s the asteroid belt. I’m swirling around and around and I’ve lost sight of my home planet. It’s enough to make me feel like giving up. The grass on your side of the fence is much greener than mine, you see. Mostly because mine is buried under three feet of ice and snow. Literally and symbolically.

Woe is me. I’m chugging along miserably on my one-lady pity train – the Bellybutton Express. I know there’s stops coming up where I can get off , stretch my legs, and prance far away from the noise of the pity party. There is a light at the end of this farcical tunnel. I just wish I could get there faster.

So that one day…

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