Month: May 2022

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I wrote this sometime in 201X.


Episode 35. She’s sitting on the swing, not rocking much, and staring out into space. She had little idea what she was doing, and had been walking, wandering, for awhile. When her name is called she runs off.

Today, because I’m frankly Internet Millennial Scum, I thought of one in the style of those over-elaborate and weirdly-specific “Current Mood” meme:

Lynn Minmay running off the stage, for she no longer enjoyed singing.

And that is a nod to Episode 34: After declaring she did not want to sing, she runs off the stage and away from a disappointed audience.

It took me this long to realize I was in that same predicament.

I was (am?) Lynn Minmay.

—

Between the long work hours and exhaustion and expectations and stresses of being a brokeass Black queer that was unable to follow the same Picket Fence Blueprint as most folx (not to mention the growing pains of learning), I lost myself.

My hobbies began collecting dust. I withdrew. I never talked much, but at that point I could’ve been an good mime. My writing slowed drastically. I stopped dreaming. I stopped day dreaming.

I didn’t quite enjoy things anymore. That is, if I ever did anything. Auxiliary power seemed to go toward anything I could shut my mind off yet still enjoy it. Or escape. Temporarily. Because the knowledge of what awaited me was always there: grind and disappointment. And when I did have time, there was always one question: What the hell do I do with myself?

Depression, punctuated by anxiety and the occasional crying jag, was all I was. There were still good times and my self that could be gleaned through the cracks, but they were becoming fewer and fewer. True happiness seemed temporary; sometimes it was better not to even try.

In a non-poetic way: I lost my mojo.

I’ve lost touch.

“What am I even singing for?”

And thus I limped through for a year or three.

Fast forward to a year later, this month. Change happened. And I am just able to put it all into words now.

“What am I even singing for?” That was a question that haunted the back of my mind, but now I must answer.

Because I thought I just “changed.” Or worse, grew up! Who’s got time for hobbies? You should be happy with a 30 minute walk around the block! You’re supposed to be an adult now! And like, you’re too tired for all that fun stuff anyway. Better save up your strength for some adult thing or whatever.

Bleak, yeah?

Have I changed that much? Am I a boring ol’ so-n-so that doesn’t have enough time anymore?

I honestly don’t think so.

There have been genuine changes– no one can be static forever, I think of them as enhancements– but there is still the hint the things that are simply just buried.

I’m finding me again.

I’m finding my songs. My old ones.

And for the first time in too long I can see the finale: yes, walking toward the sunset in a ruined city and the SDF-1 totaled… but I’ve made peace with Misa and Hikaru and there’s a new song on my lips.

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It has been a rough two years, and for me the world didn’t even shut down.


It moved on, and me with it.


While others were able to stay home and bake bread, or walk their dogs, or just slow down to enjoy time with their families– I was (am) an essential worker. Not quite as essential as retail, restaurant, or banks. But since my company provided product for those industries, I was essential enough.


For a time, my hours were cut. Others were laid off, and in retrospect I was not so lucky.


Eventually regular hours resumed– then increased– but with a pay cut. So we had to work more for less, and the work never slowed down. 10-hour days. Weekends. Overwhelming. Everyone exhausted.


And when the pandemic was declared “over” in all but name, not much changed, except the meetings resumed. Good news for them: profits were down but manageable, because cuts. Next meeting, better news: more clients, and our original pay was restored. And then, several meetings later, the dreaded two words:


“record profits”


as they wheeled in little freezers to fill with ice cream for employee appreciation, and said again when we were given $20 gift cards and candy and an extra holiday off. They were quick to mouth more appreciation during more meetings where we ate popsicles for two hours, trying our hardest not to fall asleep to their PowerPoint presentations.


For a lot of people, the writing was on the wall and it echoed the circulating articles. As the work didn’t slow but cost of living rose, the discontentment only grew. Burnout was high, and so was the toxicity. People began to leave.


I left, and from what I hear people are still leaving.


I hate to admit why I stayed as long as I did. I’m a creature of habit, and nearing 5 years of employment in that place, I did feel a little special. Wanted, even. Everyone came to me to solve issues with a system I knew like the back of my hand– and if something stumped me, I knew how to find the answer. I knew all the little things that other people stumbled over. I could find any box size, and almost any obscure item. I knew how to fix the temperamental computers with a few clicks. It was comfortable. And in tough times there is nothing more comforting than routine.


But comforting routine isn’t enough.


Not when a the grocery bill of a household of 3 humans (and 2 cats!) ballooned to $200 a week. Not when I over-utilized my credit cards because I simply didn’t make enough per hour. Not when the gas money budget doubled overnight due to oil corporate greed. Not when we want to remain in our expensive rental house, which is now considered a bargain under the current market. Not when I dreaded going into work to the point where I swore I made myself sick. Not when the work never ended, my help ultimately thankless, and my peace disturbed by the toxic gossip and despair bringing everyone down.


2.5% simply was not enough. But that was all they could give, because of their “budget.”


That realization was the final push I needed to be brave.


I type this up now, with a new job and calmer mindset.