Jailtime coming to an end

Been saying it for quite a time that I'm not suited for the job. That, accidentally, I'm doing a job of 3 or 4 people. That it's not possible to do contradictory things, such as have the paperwork done the way it's required (takes at least 6 hours a day most days) and supervise people at the whole workplace all the time. That 100+ hour workweek is fine when it's one week but it's impossible on the long run (I'm not discussing that earning less than the gal with bucket and washrag is getting twice as much money for the regular 42,5 hours which include lunch break.)

Been saying it again and again for months. Been told that all I need is a bit of experience and patience, that I'm just overreacting, that it's not that bad.

Then, the last straw came. I was still being told to suck it up, it's not that bad because it can't be that bad, it needs a bit of experience and patience but in a less self-confident tone.

And, yesterday, I heard it said: Maybe you're just wrong person for the job.

The human mind is bizarre. So many people fasion themselves as logically and rationally thinking persons but when they're told things like Hey, I'm a sociophobic chickenshit with no people skills and I have papers from several generally recognized mental experts, unaffiliated among themselves, it's brushed away. I needed to scream hysterically that the gods better do a good thing and send ugly rashes to the faces of the filthy scum. Filthy scum being employees, clients and basically whoever work-related. Apparently, my series of eloquent and elaborate curses spiced up with a f-bomb here or there worked much better.

Powers that be admitted that my strengths lie elsewhere and agreed that things will be arranged otherwise, my last task being to instruct the newly hired filthy scum employees.


I served my time, release imminent. No idea what I will do later but that doesn't matter.

Ladies and gentlemen, hold your hats and prepare for the wild downhill ride.

Well.

This building needs yardarms, which, I am told, are those things on which mutineering and otherwise annoying sailors are hung for punishment. The yardarms can be used to hang sails, too; practical, I say.

The thing is, one of the employees was extremely rude to my mother. So rude that she admitted she hadn't ever heard some of the Klatchian and she had been teaching for 20+ years. She also refused to quote the diatribe. Said employee was just somewhat rude to me and then she stormed away saying that nobody will be telling her what to do (the memo that she was made the Director of the Universe must've missed me). Mom wanted me to fire her on the spot but the whole situation made me a trembling sobbing wreck.

Today, dad yelled at me, and I know he didn't mean it as badly as it sounded, but I feel shitty enough, well, he told me that I should finally learn to solve problems myself, that he's not going to do it for me and if I don't want to work, then I can just get out of here and there was some stomping and door banging (not me).

I really feel like wandering into the woods. Or jumping on the first long-distance bus that goes away from here, regardless of direction. Been telling BossParents that I'm not able to manage this place, that I don't have the capabilities and stuff, that I can't handle the daily contact with people. Just get over it, they say. Or It's not that bad, you need to tough it out. Or I wouldn't be able to live among these hillbillies without turning crazy, I don't understand how you manage.


The little nasty ssecret is that I'm not managing. I don't sleep, I eat badly, I keep constantly washing my hands because of all that hand shaking and other interaction with the damn bags of pathogens (also known as guests in the business) while I barely force myself to shower when I either stink or it itches.

And... it feels like my brain is going on an off uncontrollably. Or, rather, off and a little bit working, I keep forgetting things, I can't concentrate and I forget what's been said before the sentence is finished. (And then I'm crying and told to get over it. Hey, I'm getting over so many things that sometimes I can't take it any more.) And when it gets worse, I just stare blankly and struggle with every single line of a bill or something.

The horror!

I'm getting a surgery in 11 days and in a month or so, I'll go to the mental hospital where I'll stay for a few weeks.

I wanted to be a serious person who plays fair and decided to sort out my shit, especially in the office and in the hotel room so that it's left clean and neat and understandable without a 4D origami map.
As anyone who ever did a large declutter knows, there's an early phase when the area looks as if it exploded. In my case, it's the second step, the first step involves picking all apparent trash from the floor and cleaning the visible bits of said floor, or, if possible, making a bit of space on which things can be placed. The amount of stuff on the floor waxes and wanes in the process and with a bit of luck, one ends up with clean floor, several bags for charity, recycling, non-specific trash and, from time to time, compost (1).

My situation is complicated due to commuting and staying in the hotel for prolonged periods of time so when I get home, to a town that has things like libraries, stationery shops, my friends and other hallmarks of civilization, I don't necessarily devote my time to cleaning. So, in one of the phases of high clutter, I took the memory card out of my computer to take a pic of something, or I took a pic and wanted to download it. One way or another, the card didn't reach its final destination and got stuck somewhere amidst of clothes, fabrics, books, papers and nondescript stuff.

At the time of finding out, it was the last straw. I had a lousy week of arguing with people, me who is not very fond of much interaction anyway, needed to cancel my therapy appointment, got yelled at by idiots, dealt with the wreckage caused by idiots... and that got topped by the diary frustration , yet another surgery in near future, then I forgot about the urine sample for the pre-surgery check-up and finally, my card went MIA.

I needed to find a super hyper important paper that was filed by the previous manager using the excellent method of Toss it on a pile and in irregular intervals, mix the papers randomly. My somewhat neatified office where my nicely labelled files are slowly taking over changed into a trash-sorting facility. Back to the beginning, then.
No, the super important urgently needed protocol wasn't found. What was found were several contracts - I meantime procured the copies, making a fool of myself because in any normal company, they have a file labelled Contracts where the contracts go, right?, various paperwork related to employees present and past, bills, notes, scribblings, things in triplicate that are probably a proof of someone's subconscious hate of trees, and all of these randomly inserted in folders or envelopes. This constituted half of the heap of shit in question, the other half were price lists, flyers, catalogs and the proofs of overt hate of trees in the advertising industry. The latter half of the godawful mess was already tossed, the rest will be filed or dealt with later. I already asked Teh Boss and Chief of Chiefs to get me a colony of termites to destroy the sensitive papers but I'm afraid I'll get an ordinary shredder at best.


I wanted to brag around with my new knits but as I can't take pics, there's a product of the habitat improvement:

A sweater from my knitterly beginning back at point zero. The yarn is pretty and not exactly cheap, if not exactly my colours either and now it's all back to stash, waiting for a better chance.

Also, a random kitty picture.


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(1) If you stumble upon a person who has a trash bin for compost and it's not in the kitchen or conservatory, in 99 % of cases I'd recommend to duck and run. I do have a compost bin, or rather a box, for herbary trash which is nicely dry, if not necessarily perfectly sterile... well, you know what I mean.

Life is out there

I had a four-day course which meant a business trip. To an actual city with paved sidewalks, trams, actual shops with things - hey, I bought a bottle of anti-dandruff shampoo on a whim, just because my head started to itch when I was passing by one of the many pharmacies. On Sunday I felt bad from the very morning. I finished my course, passed the test (killed only three people out of 40 or so) and then had a meltdown in public, in front of a bunch of strangers. I sat on the staircase, crouched and crying for no apparent reason... yesterday, I had a meltdown because I was going back to work, to that bunch of assholes less competent individuals to a place in the middle of nowhere. I pulled myself together somehow but I became painfully aware that the job from hell is just what it is. No way I can be a manager. I can't be managing people if I'm so scared or inhibited to yell at them or to tell them what to do, preferring to cover up for their mistakes and do what they should be doing because it brings less discomfort than actually telling someone that they messed up. On the other hand, carrying beer kegs is good for upper body strength.

Apathy

I'm struggling with severe depression, which is probably already widely known.
On the top of it, there's some work-related stress, seasonal affective disorder and random crap.
I had a meltdown some time ago and got new psych meds which should work better. Or work at all.
The problem of psych meds is that they need their time and it seems to me that they finally kicked in, or at least I don't feel that bad. However...
My major issue is apathy. Or, it's not much of an issue because what the heck. Not that I would lie in bed and stare into the walls, I just go about my shit as diligently as possible but I just don't get involved emotionally too much, often not at all. My major feeling is Go away and don't disturb my circles. Five minutes after a minor bout of anger, I'm back to the general Meh, life.

I guess it's a coping mechanism. I just detest my work 99% of the time (the 1% is peaceful paper shuffling), I have hardly any time outside work and sleep and the brain takes it as it comes and as it goes. Floods in Bangladesh? Can't do anything about it, meh, next. My hair caught fire? Damn nuisance, hand me that bottle of water, let's open the window so that the place doesn't stink like burnt protein, meh, next.
There is some sort of meditative quality about this feeling that nothing really matters.

Or I'm deeply mentally disturbed. Not that I'd care.

Whatevs

After my 3 months course of Teach yourself eat healthy and lose some weight, my beer gut shrank and I gained around 4 kilos. I was working out and stuff and I generally grow muscle fast.

I got pissed, though. If normal shit doesn't work, one has to search for other options and I decided to wake my inner anorexic.

This week is dedicated to eating up leftovers, then, we will see.

How I didn't get another cat

I went to my GP for some damn paper. One of the glories of being ill with something unidentifiable is that one does lots of walking.
On my way back, I was crossing a road and I saw two policemen standing above what looked like a dead cat. They were on my way and I was all oh, poor kitty, so I went to have a look. Dead cat was still breathing and one of the police idjits was standing on its tail so that it wouldn't run away. I knelt down because, well, a scared and hurt kitty can always do with a bit of calm talk and stroking. The police had already called a veterinary ambulance, which arrived shortly, and meantime, they asked me what would I have done if I found said cat. "Sir, I'd stop this passing taxi and go to the closest vet," I answered and police idjits gave me a disbelieving and puzzled look. The vet arrived, asked whether I'm the owner, Nope, I said, asked the police who is the owner, Dunno, said they, and the vet remarked that if the cat isn't microchipped, he might need to put him down because nobody would pay for all that hassle.

There goes my food budget for a month, I decided, and I said that I'm taking over the responsibility, the bills and be it needed, the cat. I drove to the clinic with the vet, kitty needed to be sedated anyway so I was hanging around the waiting room. Meantime, I alarmed a friend who alarmed the internetz, and pondered how this might turn out. The cat was a castrated tom, blue, although too thin to be a British Shorthair, and not that furry as well, but anyway, it should be someone's cat and whoever that someone may be, they might miss their kitty, but if he's not chipped, someone else who is at hand needs to deal with matters. Also, the cat didn't look really badly injured, there was something obviously wrong with his front paw and he was bleeding from his mouth, but no bits and pieces were missing nor visibly damaged beyond repair, so I was going through my list of friends, relatives and random strangers who could be persuaded to care for a cat.
The owners appeared, though. The police idjits were loitering around the area and stopped for a smoke just in front of their house when the cat owners were coming home from somewhere. Cat owners asked what's up, police mentioned the cat, they went Oh shit, that's our cat, and were promptly dispatched to said clinic. I learned that the cat was indeed British Shorthair, who had been lost for a few weeks and had returned stick thin only a few days ago.

I happily accepted a drive home from them and left them my phone number to keep me informed, all the vet told us that the kitty's tongue was partly torn off, stitched back and hopefully, it would heal.

Alas, later in the afternoon, the lady called me that the kitty didn't make it.

I was devastated. Which felt odd, I fostered cats and had a few die and those were cats I had around for quite a time, whom I fed medicines and whose diarrhoea I cleaned, and their deaths touched me less than the of a cat I've stroked a few times when he was lounging on the garden fence and, well, when lying hurt in the curb. I spent the evening in solitary drinking.

I wonder, is it too insensitive to point the people at my friend who has four sweet British Shorthair kittens?