Gram Parsons- Return of the Grevious Angel
I was all for the cheerful this week. I really was. I was going to see the sunny (or at the very least the funny) side of things and look forward to the up. This all seems to have gone, for want of a more salubrious phrase, tits fucking up.
I had three job interviews last week, which were all of them horrible. One was just more or less normal job interview horrible, which when you factor in my fear of people and places I don't know, and my intense anxiety surrounding other people's opinions of me (desire to be liked, nay, LOVED, even by the one who's only in the interview to write the notes and talk about the money), and my horror of smart clothes is pretty fucking horrible.
The second was for a job in an office. I had this dream, you see, about what life in an office would be like- it was full of banter and the productive fun of people being, you know, productive, and fun. Imaginative clever funny people, like in the WestWing, but not at all like in the Office. It turns out that just being in an office is not like the WestWing at all, and much more like the Office (who knew?) and also, being in an office makes me feel like my soul is dying. Sitting in the interview, it was hard for me to work out who was more horrified- me, at the idea of me working there, or them, at the idea of me working there. Somehow I don't think I'll be hearing happy things back from those people, and my illusions about office life have now been shattered by the simple expedient of, you know, being in an office. Brrr. Never again. Even the plants looked sad in that place.
The third interview was for a job anyone with opposable thumbs and the ability to string ten words together could do while in a coma. Now, I don't mean to boast here, and even if I did, I think the very fact that I am manifestly off my rocker would make my boast seem hollow if not overtly and pathetically misguided. But. I have two degrees. Two! In philosophy! From reputable establishments! I could do this job. However, even with these pieces of paper supposedly confirming my intellegence I found the interview a tad tricky. It was three hours long, and had a tea break. No interview should have a tea break. Half way through (I think it was at about the time they brought out the mental arithmetic test) I began to wonder if I had accidentally stumbled into an MI5 recruitment session- they are, after all, just up the river from the building I was in, and might conceivably use it to cover their tracks. Anyway, this means that I might end up being a spy. That would be pretty cool. I tried to be a spy once, but then I realised that a spy without a government is, in fact, a stalker.
So all of that was pretty exhausting. Worse, it coincided with the end of hypomania and the beginning of feeling like a dishtowel, rinsed and mangled and hung out to dry. Things have just got worse, really, since then. It seems like not only my brain but also the world are out to get me. Among other things I fell down stairs, dramatically, comprehensively and painfully, and have lacerated my fingers quite badly on the two wineglasses I was carrying. I had a hard time persuading my doctors that these were accidental injuries, which didn't make any of it any better. There is nothing more humiliating than angling for sympathy with your impressive war wounds and nearly getting sent back to the bin. It brings out the righteous indignation in a girl- and also, it turns out, the tears and footstamping. Finally, by a process to complicated to explain, I seem to have acquired myself an adolescent stalker, who has spent most of the last three days sitting on my doorstep. He seems to have decided that I can save him, or take care of him, or at least go out for a drink with him- none of which I am going to do. It makes me feel sort of sorry for the poor chap, to be honest, because of all the people to chose as the light of salvation a clumsy, depressive, jobless borderline with a prediliction for drink is really, really not a good one. Bad luck, boyo.
My neighbours, who seem to believe (possibly, to my deep annoyance, rightly) that I can't look after myself, have been calling the police on my behalf. So rather than spending tomorrow in bed reading nice comforting novels by `PGWoodehouse and drinking industrial stength PGtips I have to meet a policeman and try not to let him find out that I am crazy. Borderlines don't, as a rule, make credible witnesses. Also, we are known for being a tad, how do you say, hysterical and neurotic. A policeman's nightmare, really. So that's going to be a laugh.
All in all, things are not so great chez bluetrees.
On top of which. The sadness has taken on a shape in the room, and I don't seem to be able to get away from it- there is a weight in my chest, and my face in the mirror looks strange. I am listening to the most cheerful music I can deal with in the hope to shift it (in itself an activity not deviod of pathos) but it doesn't work. It makes my body curl in on itself, sucking my limbs into myself in an effort to wrench safety from physical space.
Every person I love seems a long, long way away tonight. All I want is comfort, and in my mind I run throug the litany of names, realising that not one of them can help me. I am alone. I ache from my fall. There is a weird stalker on my doorstep. I have cried so much my eyes burn and my body feels emptied of itself. Even Gram Parsons isn't making me want to dance. It's not a good position to be in.
So- not a funny post about valentine's day. Just another post about how sadness eats away in the strangest places and everything, always, seems to go wrong in a single wonderful, spectacular, glorious shower of tears.
I had three job interviews last week, which were all of them horrible. One was just more or less normal job interview horrible, which when you factor in my fear of people and places I don't know, and my intense anxiety surrounding other people's opinions of me (desire to be liked, nay, LOVED, even by the one who's only in the interview to write the notes and talk about the money), and my horror of smart clothes is pretty fucking horrible.
The second was for a job in an office. I had this dream, you see, about what life in an office would be like- it was full of banter and the productive fun of people being, you know, productive, and fun. Imaginative clever funny people, like in the WestWing, but not at all like in the Office. It turns out that just being in an office is not like the WestWing at all, and much more like the Office (who knew?) and also, being in an office makes me feel like my soul is dying. Sitting in the interview, it was hard for me to work out who was more horrified- me, at the idea of me working there, or them, at the idea of me working there. Somehow I don't think I'll be hearing happy things back from those people, and my illusions about office life have now been shattered by the simple expedient of, you know, being in an office. Brrr. Never again. Even the plants looked sad in that place.
The third interview was for a job anyone with opposable thumbs and the ability to string ten words together could do while in a coma. Now, I don't mean to boast here, and even if I did, I think the very fact that I am manifestly off my rocker would make my boast seem hollow if not overtly and pathetically misguided. But. I have two degrees. Two! In philosophy! From reputable establishments! I could do this job. However, even with these pieces of paper supposedly confirming my intellegence I found the interview a tad tricky. It was three hours long, and had a tea break. No interview should have a tea break. Half way through (I think it was at about the time they brought out the mental arithmetic test) I began to wonder if I had accidentally stumbled into an MI5 recruitment session- they are, after all, just up the river from the building I was in, and might conceivably use it to cover their tracks. Anyway, this means that I might end up being a spy. That would be pretty cool. I tried to be a spy once, but then I realised that a spy without a government is, in fact, a stalker.
So all of that was pretty exhausting. Worse, it coincided with the end of hypomania and the beginning of feeling like a dishtowel, rinsed and mangled and hung out to dry. Things have just got worse, really, since then. It seems like not only my brain but also the world are out to get me. Among other things I fell down stairs, dramatically, comprehensively and painfully, and have lacerated my fingers quite badly on the two wineglasses I was carrying. I had a hard time persuading my doctors that these were accidental injuries, which didn't make any of it any better. There is nothing more humiliating than angling for sympathy with your impressive war wounds and nearly getting sent back to the bin. It brings out the righteous indignation in a girl- and also, it turns out, the tears and footstamping. Finally, by a process to complicated to explain, I seem to have acquired myself an adolescent stalker, who has spent most of the last three days sitting on my doorstep. He seems to have decided that I can save him, or take care of him, or at least go out for a drink with him- none of which I am going to do. It makes me feel sort of sorry for the poor chap, to be honest, because of all the people to chose as the light of salvation a clumsy, depressive, jobless borderline with a prediliction for drink is really, really not a good one. Bad luck, boyo.
My neighbours, who seem to believe (possibly, to my deep annoyance, rightly) that I can't look after myself, have been calling the police on my behalf. So rather than spending tomorrow in bed reading nice comforting novels by `PGWoodehouse and drinking industrial stength PGtips I have to meet a policeman and try not to let him find out that I am crazy. Borderlines don't, as a rule, make credible witnesses. Also, we are known for being a tad, how do you say, hysterical and neurotic. A policeman's nightmare, really. So that's going to be a laugh.
All in all, things are not so great chez bluetrees.
On top of which. The sadness has taken on a shape in the room, and I don't seem to be able to get away from it- there is a weight in my chest, and my face in the mirror looks strange. I am listening to the most cheerful music I can deal with in the hope to shift it (in itself an activity not deviod of pathos) but it doesn't work. It makes my body curl in on itself, sucking my limbs into myself in an effort to wrench safety from physical space.
Every person I love seems a long, long way away tonight. All I want is comfort, and in my mind I run throug the litany of names, realising that not one of them can help me. I am alone. I ache from my fall. There is a weird stalker on my doorstep. I have cried so much my eyes burn and my body feels emptied of itself. Even Gram Parsons isn't making me want to dance. It's not a good position to be in.
So- not a funny post about valentine's day. Just another post about how sadness eats away in the strangest places and everything, always, seems to go wrong in a single wonderful, spectacular, glorious shower of tears.
posted by tattybluetrees at 4:51 PM
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