Rosie Bonner is Unemployed
I finally applied for unemployment benefits last Friday. They have offices where you can go take a number and stand in line and fill out forms and stuff just like in the movies (Fun with Dick & Jane and St. Elmo's Fire leap somewhat incongruously to mind), but you can also apply by phone or even, I think, online. I was pretty depressed that day, I guess, complete with sitting leadenly on the couch for an hour at a time trying to work up the emotional energy to do something, anything (which isn't a state I've reached too often since starting on the nice little white ovals of antidepressant goodness). Getting fully dressed like a functioning adult and going out into the daylight and driving my car to somewhere I'd never been before in order to deal with administrative issues related to losing my job was just not something I felt able to face. Besides that, there was the more rational reason that with the size of the belly on me at this point, the true status of my "looking for work" would have to be deeply suspect to anyone who looked at me. (I mean, looking for work? Honey, the only thing you need to be looking for right now is Labor and Delivery, the sooner the better.) I did have a question, though, so I called the number to talk to a person.
When I called, I got a message that said that all agents (? or something) were currently assisting other callers, that I could call back later, and if I chose to hold, the wait was estimated at "twenty... three... minutes." I immediately felt slightly relieved. Being on hold is doing something. Being on hold with the unemployment office is a noble, productive, necessary part of my day. And yet, all I have to do is sit there. For 23 minutes. Count me in. The only problem was the hold music. I had my radio on an oldies station (not my usual fare, but "Dancing Queen" and "Daydream Believer" had actually lightened my mood enough that I was able to do some cleaning, so I kept it on), and I really did not appreciate the stupid governmental muzak (punctuated, of course, by little recorded announcements about regular office hours and having your child's social security number ready if you were applying for dependent benefits). Despite the cacophony of "Can't Buy Me Love" mixing with what I think must have been "Thorazine for Electronic Strings," I kept my radio on out of dumb misplaced stubbornness.
Finally, there was a brief ringing, and a lady came on and asked how she could help me. I said that I had lost my job and wanted to apply for unemployment benefits. She started asking me the routine questions--who were my employers for the last 12 months, what were the dates of employment, what were the circumstances of my leaving my last position... The circumstances of my leaving. I mean, of course I knew I was going to be asked that, and yet trying to answer, I kind of stammered and found myself overexplaining. "...and the nurse manager said that I just wasn't catching on fast enough," I concluded forlornly. There was a brief pause, and then I said, "so, um, I guess 'poor performance'?" The unemployment lady might have been a bureaucrat, but she was a kind bureaucrat. "Not a good fit," she corrected me, consolingly.
She continued to run through the questions, and I had twinges of conscience when she asked whether I was currently looking for work, and whether I was able to start work now, but at least I was prepared enough to lie without hesitating. Sure. Sure, I can start work any time. Tomorrow, three weeks from now. Whenever. I just have to find an employer who doesn't need me to get through a doorway sideways or mind if my water breaks all over the floor. Well, and there is the moaning. I can do vitals and pass meds between contractions, but do you happen to have any soundproof rooms anywhere? Otherwise I might have to cut out early one day if I get too loud for the patients.
Meanwhile I have the opportunity--again--to ponder--again--the meaning and hidden lessons that may be derived from a bout of unemployment. Again. Of course the topic that leaps to my mind most readily is "what the hell is wrong with me, anyway?" Of the, let's see, 30 months since we moved here, I have been fully unemployed for a total of 13, working as a temp (in an office, answering phones, making photocopies, entering mind-numbing data) for about 8 1/2 and gainfully employed in something resembling an appropriate job for 9. And yet, and yet, I somehow maintain a self-image as someone who is not, in fact, a total loser. Does there come a point when I stop believing that? Does my self-esteem eventually throw up her hands and walk off in disgust, muttering at me "what have you done for me lately"?
I listen to the radio, I watch television, I read the newspaper, and there are people everywhere just doing their jobs. Just working. At the jobs that they have and have had and will continue to have. It looks so effortless. The dj on oldies radio (yes, I'm still at it) asks a caller if he has the day off for President's Day. Yes, he says. Of course. A talking head on the news (or on the Daily Show) is identified by job title. The nurses on Grey's Anatomy have sex with interns in the call room and go on strike... but they don't get fired. Working is what grown-ups do. It's just how the world functions. I feel as though I must be in suspended animation, floating quizzically in the stillness, mutely watching and wondering as the rest of humanity rushes on.
It seems incumbent on me to figure out the pattern, to crack why it is that I'm not much of the working world the past couple years. It certainly has not been my intent. And yet there it is. So it seems foolishly and blindly blithe to fail to notice. But when I think about each instance of unemployment--1) being directionless after having just moved here; 2) having been allowed to resign from Famous Hospital after the e-mail incident; and 3) having been allowed to resign from Other Famous Hospital for failure to perform adequately as a staff nurse--there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of commonality. It seems as though I'm supposed to have an epiphany along the lines of, I don't know, "I need to learn to manage my anger," or "I guess I really do have a drinking problem," or "I reluctantly conclude that I do have to bathe more than once a week." But nothing's really presenting itself immediately. In instance #1, I was new to the area and had been counting on the assistance of a certain VP of patient services to get me some consulting work, and when that fell through, it turned out I had little more thought out and a terrible temperament for hustling up self-employment opportunities. Plus I was depressed. In instance #2, I lost the job through a relatively isolated pissy moment and what turned out to be a significant misjudgment of my co-worker's character. In instance #3, I lost the job through some kind of failure to get up to speed and adapt to an extremely detail- and task-oriented role. The only theme I'm coming up with is some vague sense that I'm just not ideally suited to anything, that I don't quite fit in anywhere. But that's not particularly enlightening, useful, or even necessarily true.
So maybe I just stop thinking about it. Maybe I just work on getting the baby's room ready, pull out and wash Cassie's old newborn clothes, freeze some food for postpartum, pack a going-to-the-hospital bag, and just hang out doing what needs to be done. (Ooh! And cupcakes for Cassie to take to school on Friday because it's her 4th birthday! Eek. Okay.) And we'll worry about employment when it's time to worry about employment.
When I called, I got a message that said that all agents (? or something) were currently assisting other callers, that I could call back later, and if I chose to hold, the wait was estimated at "twenty... three... minutes." I immediately felt slightly relieved. Being on hold is doing something. Being on hold with the unemployment office is a noble, productive, necessary part of my day. And yet, all I have to do is sit there. For 23 minutes. Count me in. The only problem was the hold music. I had my radio on an oldies station (not my usual fare, but "Dancing Queen" and "Daydream Believer" had actually lightened my mood enough that I was able to do some cleaning, so I kept it on), and I really did not appreciate the stupid governmental muzak (punctuated, of course, by little recorded announcements about regular office hours and having your child's social security number ready if you were applying for dependent benefits). Despite the cacophony of "Can't Buy Me Love" mixing with what I think must have been "Thorazine for Electronic Strings," I kept my radio on out of dumb misplaced stubbornness.
Finally, there was a brief ringing, and a lady came on and asked how she could help me. I said that I had lost my job and wanted to apply for unemployment benefits. She started asking me the routine questions--who were my employers for the last 12 months, what were the dates of employment, what were the circumstances of my leaving my last position... The circumstances of my leaving. I mean, of course I knew I was going to be asked that, and yet trying to answer, I kind of stammered and found myself overexplaining. "...and the nurse manager said that I just wasn't catching on fast enough," I concluded forlornly. There was a brief pause, and then I said, "so, um, I guess 'poor performance'?" The unemployment lady might have been a bureaucrat, but she was a kind bureaucrat. "Not a good fit," she corrected me, consolingly.
She continued to run through the questions, and I had twinges of conscience when she asked whether I was currently looking for work, and whether I was able to start work now, but at least I was prepared enough to lie without hesitating. Sure. Sure, I can start work any time. Tomorrow, three weeks from now. Whenever. I just have to find an employer who doesn't need me to get through a doorway sideways or mind if my water breaks all over the floor. Well, and there is the moaning. I can do vitals and pass meds between contractions, but do you happen to have any soundproof rooms anywhere? Otherwise I might have to cut out early one day if I get too loud for the patients.
Meanwhile I have the opportunity--again--to ponder--again--the meaning and hidden lessons that may be derived from a bout of unemployment. Again. Of course the topic that leaps to my mind most readily is "what the hell is wrong with me, anyway?" Of the, let's see, 30 months since we moved here, I have been fully unemployed for a total of 13, working as a temp (in an office, answering phones, making photocopies, entering mind-numbing data) for about 8 1/2 and gainfully employed in something resembling an appropriate job for 9. And yet, and yet, I somehow maintain a self-image as someone who is not, in fact, a total loser. Does there come a point when I stop believing that? Does my self-esteem eventually throw up her hands and walk off in disgust, muttering at me "what have you done for me lately"?
I listen to the radio, I watch television, I read the newspaper, and there are people everywhere just doing their jobs. Just working. At the jobs that they have and have had and will continue to have. It looks so effortless. The dj on oldies radio (yes, I'm still at it) asks a caller if he has the day off for President's Day. Yes, he says. Of course. A talking head on the news (or on the Daily Show) is identified by job title. The nurses on Grey's Anatomy have sex with interns in the call room and go on strike... but they don't get fired. Working is what grown-ups do. It's just how the world functions. I feel as though I must be in suspended animation, floating quizzically in the stillness, mutely watching and wondering as the rest of humanity rushes on.
It seems incumbent on me to figure out the pattern, to crack why it is that I'm not much of the working world the past couple years. It certainly has not been my intent. And yet there it is. So it seems foolishly and blindly blithe to fail to notice. But when I think about each instance of unemployment--1) being directionless after having just moved here; 2) having been allowed to resign from Famous Hospital after the e-mail incident; and 3) having been allowed to resign from Other Famous Hospital for failure to perform adequately as a staff nurse--there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of commonality. It seems as though I'm supposed to have an epiphany along the lines of, I don't know, "I need to learn to manage my anger," or "I guess I really do have a drinking problem," or "I reluctantly conclude that I do have to bathe more than once a week." But nothing's really presenting itself immediately. In instance #1, I was new to the area and had been counting on the assistance of a certain VP of patient services to get me some consulting work, and when that fell through, it turned out I had little more thought out and a terrible temperament for hustling up self-employment opportunities. Plus I was depressed. In instance #2, I lost the job through a relatively isolated pissy moment and what turned out to be a significant misjudgment of my co-worker's character. In instance #3, I lost the job through some kind of failure to get up to speed and adapt to an extremely detail- and task-oriented role. The only theme I'm coming up with is some vague sense that I'm just not ideally suited to anything, that I don't quite fit in anywhere. But that's not particularly enlightening, useful, or even necessarily true.
So maybe I just stop thinking about it. Maybe I just work on getting the baby's room ready, pull out and wash Cassie's old newborn clothes, freeze some food for postpartum, pack a going-to-the-hospital bag, and just hang out doing what needs to be done. (Ooh! And cupcakes for Cassie to take to school on Friday because it's her 4th birthday! Eek. Okay.) And we'll worry about employment when it's time to worry about employment.
posted by Rosie Bonner at 2:24 PM
3 Comments:
Sister.
I too have found myself recently unemployed. I'm a reporter/writer. I'm currently clinging to that identity as much as possible. I feel your pain (except for the labor part). You've inspired me to start a blog on looking for work. I'll be in touch w/ you about that journey later. You can read it. You may like it. Good luck to you.
Clearly, your final paragraph is sane, reasonable, and what you should do. But I fully sympathize with how ludicrous that seems. I'm in a somewhat analagous situation where (without going into the sordid details) basically I have to sell my house in order to move on and leave behind a series of monumental and life-wrecking screwups that I perpetrated over a period of about a year and a half.
The place has been on the market for almost a year but no one's buying it. And until someone does, I am trapped in a weird transitional limbo, unable to settle in, get my belongings out of storage, knowing that in the near future I'll be moving 500 miles away, but not able to plan it or accomplish it.
I spend a lot of energy asking why? What am I supposed to get out of this? What am I doing wrong/not doing/not learning? Basically, what is wrong with me? In rational moments I understand it's just circumstance and that this eternity of torturous limbo will seem like a blip in a few years (I hope, I hope!), but mostly I feel confused and embattled.
So, I hear ya.
sweetie bear,
yes, you are right. cupcakes for Cassie and a going-to-the-hospital bag are the priority. but it *still* sucks that you have to deal with the rest of it.
think of you daily,
xox
marina
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