Skip to main content

Scary Good

So, as many of you who have this blog on your radar know, I am currently unemployed. This past week, though, I had a highly successful meeting with a recruiter named Susie at a national temp/recruiting agency. Yay, right?

Right, but there was something else. They required me to give a reference from my last job. That was a bit of a problem, as my supervisors from my last job adored my teaching, but were not really thrilled with how much time off I took.

There was a point in the interview, where I had to say something. "About my references," I started. I don't remember my exact words, but they boiled down to this.

I had some serious problems starting in September 2010, starting with a miscarriage, and I never quite bounced back.


I am a chronic depressive.


I am on medication, and I keep it in check with regular therapy and visits to my psychiatrist.


I had problems getting to work some days, especially with a long commute.

I said it. I laid everything down. It instantly turned a routine fill-out-the-I9-and-get-to-know-you interview into the most terrifying interview I have ever endured.

She rolled with it. Bless Susie, she took it in stride, appreciated my honesty, and suggested that the change of scenery and pace of temping might help me bounce out of my professional malaise. Not to mention the fact that I explicitly asked for assignments to which I can take the city bus. No more trips to PG county. No disrespect to the county or its inhabitants, but that alone is a huge weight off my shoulders.

The interview went on for another half an hour, at least, during which she asked me about my interests, and what kind of assignments I'd be interested in.

But I did it. Even if she'd put on a bland mask and hustled me out there as soon as possible, it still would have been worth it. In therapy, I deal a lot with being me, not just the person I think others want or need to see. Well, me is a chronic depressive and screwed up her last job kind of spectacularly. It's not the only facet of who I am, but it is one that I should acknowledge and learn from.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Help!

So, besides the fact that this song's lyrics are hitting way too close to home right now, I'm looking for help setting up 1.) more of a web presence than I currently have, and b.) a more impressive web presence than I currently have. I've already put two library books on WordPress on hold. Anyone have tutorial or book suggestions?
Thanks!

The Power of Poop

So, I've technically missed a day on my mission to write a blog post every day for 40 days, but I got back up to write this, so it counts for something. I think I had a really good reason for missing out, though.

A new and exciting side effect of depression for me these days is insomnia and the general screwing-up of my diurnal cycle, i.e., I don't have one. That isn't helped by the fact that the last part of Herself's bedtime routine is mommy or daddy staying to cuddle for the first story on her If You Give A Mouse A Cookie CD. My problem is that I get so warm, content, and comfy that I fall asleep, sometimes for a few hours. This, as you can guess, helps my own sleeping situation not at all. So I promised The Therapist and The Shrink that I would work harder to stay for just the first story, and then leave and go to bed at a decent hour for me (ideally, 2200 - 2300).1

Our house has been in some emotional upheaval the past week or so. We got some scary news about fami…

Be Warned, I Swear in This One. A Lot.

This post is in response to an essay I read earlier today by an internet acquaintance and very popular author and blogger Ferrett Steinmetz, entitled, "How to Be a Good Depressive Citizen." In his essay, Ferrett makes a very good point about the unwritten yet strangely compulsory stoicism required of writers who grapple with depression. We hold ourselves to this impossible standard we would never require of anyone else. At least I hope to G-d we would never require of anyone else--that would be monstrous. But, for me, what he says boils down to this:

You do not discuss your depression until you can be an inspiration, or you are just fucking crazy. Nobody likes crazy.Hi. My name is Lyn, and I am fucking crazy. Really. Mentally ill, as they say. Liking me is optional, but, I'm told, entertaining as all hell. Case in point: I'm kind of done with being publicly stoic about how big a mess my life is at the moment, and feel like flinging my crazy around like paint. Feel fre…