My job sucks.
I know, almost everyone says that, but to say that my job sucks would actually be an understatement. The things I have witnessed and experienced there shouldn't be happening, yet no one cares enough to stop it. I care.
My boss strongly dislikes me. He can say he has nothing personal against me until he's blue in the face but I, as well as the majority of my coworkers, know he personally hates me. It's not because I am a poor employee - I am one of the most intelligent, most rounded, hardest working people at my job. I have no problem saying that I am more intelligent than he is - and I think deep down he knows that. I also don't sit there and take shit like everyone else does. He hates that. He hates when I answer him back. He hates when I prove him wrong. He wants everyone to just sit there and yes him until he's satisfied. Sorry, I'm not that kind of person. I go right back at him. If I'm not satisfied with what he does, I go above his head. He thinks he's hurting me by constantly demoting me. He tells me all the time that I need this job and that I need him. I'm sorry, but the only person I "need" is myself. I will never be in a position to need a man, or any person for that matter. I work not because I need the money, but because I need something to do in my spare time.
I've been stalked by a manager, told I was mentally ill, had my personal health information disclosed on more than one occasion to associates who had no business knowing that information, been lied about, had numerous letters written about me that targeted at me and my close friends, been told to work off the clock, and I've even been framed by a manager. What is my job's response? Demote ME, even after it's been proven that I didn't do anything.
Someone asked me a few days ago why everyone was always trying to attack me. I of course don't know the real answer, and probably never will. Are they threatened by my intelligence? Are they scared that I know too much about them? Who knows. Like I said before, I work because I need something to do to prevent boredom. I'm not out to get anybody, yet they are all out to get me.
Today, my boss cursed out the assistant manager in front of other associates and customers. He told him he was "fucking stupid" amongst other things. In any other professional place of business, this wouldn't be tolerated. Yet my boss is allowed to do whatever he wants, and no one reports him because he claims he's untouchable. No one is untouchable. People have to know the right places to go and the right people to speak to. Eventually his ass will get what it deserves.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Sickness of the Physical Variety
So I haven't updated in a week. To be honest, I've had no energy. I don't know how I made it through work this past week.
It's hard for me to realize when I'm sick. I'm not talking sick like having a cold sick, I'm talking about hospital-level sickness. This past January, I spent a week in the hospital. I had pneumonia. I had been feeling under the weather for several weeks before, but I just assumed it was allergies or my asthma. I woke up one Sunday morning and could barely get out of bed. I managed to drag myself to work, but I wound up leaving after two hours. I had taken my inhaler several times, inhaled steam, and even tried vapor rub because I couldn't take two steps without gasping for air. Nothing was working. I went home and stayed in bed all day so nobody would know I couldn't breathe.
The next morning, I woke up and tried to take a shower. Before I even got in the shower, I started coughing and couldn't stop. I was choking on nothing and after a minute I just threw up mucous all over the bathroom. I didn't know my lungs could hold that much fluid. I ended up in the emergency room later that afternoon. While waiting for an X-ray technician, I got dizzy and passed out. Doctors and nurses rushed in and made me lay down, gave me an oxygen mask, three IVs, and a heart monitor, as well as some pretty painful shots of epinephrine and steroid right in my arm. I just wanted to go home, but my oxygen levels were so low that I had to be admitted.
Did I mention I hate hospitals? I hated the fact that I couldn't take a shower for a week. Those warm wipes they give you are just not enough. I hated the fact that I had to wear a heavy ass heart monitor around my neck. I hated that I was surrounded by old people for a week. I hated having to drag the IV pole with me every time I had to take a piss. I hated getting shots in my stomach at 3 AM. Worst of all, the nurse had undressed me in front of my family. I was afraid to say anything. I tried not to think about things, but I couldn't help it. I started to have a panic attack, and the head nurse eventually gave me something to calm down (after waiting a half an hour for approval). I wanted to die.
So, needless to say, I don't want to end up in the hospital again. I don't have insurance, so any time I go to see my doctor it costs me $100. I can't even afford my medication right now, let alone a doctor's visit. I'd hate to scrape up the money to go to the doctor and have him tell me it's just a cold. I can't tell when I'm really sick until I'm deathly sick. Other people around me seem to know I'm sick before I do. Yesterday, I was walking out of the bathroom at work, and the manager had told me to sit down, that I looked like I was about to pass out. Sure, I felt dizzy, but my dumb ass told her "I can't, they need me to work" and stumbled my way back up to the front, holding on to the wall so I wouldn't fall over. I always put everything and everyone before I myself. If I would have passed out, I would have gotten up and went right back to work. I've done it before.
It's hard for me to realize when I'm sick. I'm not talking sick like having a cold sick, I'm talking about hospital-level sickness. This past January, I spent a week in the hospital. I had pneumonia. I had been feeling under the weather for several weeks before, but I just assumed it was allergies or my asthma. I woke up one Sunday morning and could barely get out of bed. I managed to drag myself to work, but I wound up leaving after two hours. I had taken my inhaler several times, inhaled steam, and even tried vapor rub because I couldn't take two steps without gasping for air. Nothing was working. I went home and stayed in bed all day so nobody would know I couldn't breathe.
The next morning, I woke up and tried to take a shower. Before I even got in the shower, I started coughing and couldn't stop. I was choking on nothing and after a minute I just threw up mucous all over the bathroom. I didn't know my lungs could hold that much fluid. I ended up in the emergency room later that afternoon. While waiting for an X-ray technician, I got dizzy and passed out. Doctors and nurses rushed in and made me lay down, gave me an oxygen mask, three IVs, and a heart monitor, as well as some pretty painful shots of epinephrine and steroid right in my arm. I just wanted to go home, but my oxygen levels were so low that I had to be admitted.
Did I mention I hate hospitals? I hated the fact that I couldn't take a shower for a week. Those warm wipes they give you are just not enough. I hated the fact that I had to wear a heavy ass heart monitor around my neck. I hated that I was surrounded by old people for a week. I hated having to drag the IV pole with me every time I had to take a piss. I hated getting shots in my stomach at 3 AM. Worst of all, the nurse had undressed me in front of my family. I was afraid to say anything. I tried not to think about things, but I couldn't help it. I started to have a panic attack, and the head nurse eventually gave me something to calm down (after waiting a half an hour for approval). I wanted to die.
So, needless to say, I don't want to end up in the hospital again. I don't have insurance, so any time I go to see my doctor it costs me $100. I can't even afford my medication right now, let alone a doctor's visit. I'd hate to scrape up the money to go to the doctor and have him tell me it's just a cold. I can't tell when I'm really sick until I'm deathly sick. Other people around me seem to know I'm sick before I do. Yesterday, I was walking out of the bathroom at work, and the manager had told me to sit down, that I looked like I was about to pass out. Sure, I felt dizzy, but my dumb ass told her "I can't, they need me to work" and stumbled my way back up to the front, holding on to the wall so I wouldn't fall over. I always put everything and everyone before I myself. If I would have passed out, I would have gotten up and went right back to work. I've done it before.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Love Over Hatred
Last week, a very good friend of mine made a proposal; if I stopped hurting myself, she would stop smoking. My first reaction was that I could never stop. I have been doing it for 15 years, and I don't really know any other ways of dealing. She told me to think about it over the weekend, and I did. I realized that she had been smoking probably as long as I've been alive, and it would be hard for her to stop smoking just as it would be hard for me to stop hurting myself. I know that she really must love me for her to make that sacrifice. After much thought, I agreed to try it out. She is finishing her last pack of cigarettes, and I'm healing from my last burn.
I was nine when I first starting hurting myself. I had an over-sized pencil I bought from the Museum of Natural History, and I would hit myself with it for hours until I couldn't take it anymore. I would have bruises all over my arms and legs. It's amazing how many times I got away with the "got my arm stuck in a door" excuse. No one ever questioned any further than that. Why did I do it? It was at that age I realized that the things that were happening to me were not normal. I remember sitting in my fourth grade class, and the teacher had mentioned something about us being old enough to take showers and bathe by ourselves. Everyone raised their hand except for me. That was the first of many realizations that what was happening was wrong. I started to blame myself for it, thinking that something must be wrong with me. So every time something happened, I hurt myself. It was my own self-punishment that I believed I deserved.
When I was 13 years old, I started scratching and cutting. Whenever anyone noticed, I blamed the cat, or running into something, etc, etc. It didn't get bad until my second year in high school. Even throughout counseling, and therapy, I never really stopped; I just found better ways to hide it. A few years later, I got into burning. After that, I got into drugs (street and over the counter). I was grasping for anything that could help me deal with the pain. It was no longer about punishing myself as it had been when I started out. It turned into my way of coping with the feelings I couldn't express out loud.
I have my doubts about being able to stop. If guidance counselors, therapists, psychiatrists, and friends couldn't help me before, why would this instance be any different? Maybe it won't be, or maybe it will. My friend told me that I needed to learn how to love myself. I never understood how to love myself because no one has ever loved me enough to love myself. My friend loves me more than I love myself. I love her more than I love myself. I guess maybe that's the problem.
I was nine when I first starting hurting myself. I had an over-sized pencil I bought from the Museum of Natural History, and I would hit myself with it for hours until I couldn't take it anymore. I would have bruises all over my arms and legs. It's amazing how many times I got away with the "got my arm stuck in a door" excuse. No one ever questioned any further than that. Why did I do it? It was at that age I realized that the things that were happening to me were not normal. I remember sitting in my fourth grade class, and the teacher had mentioned something about us being old enough to take showers and bathe by ourselves. Everyone raised their hand except for me. That was the first of many realizations that what was happening was wrong. I started to blame myself for it, thinking that something must be wrong with me. So every time something happened, I hurt myself. It was my own self-punishment that I believed I deserved.
When I was 13 years old, I started scratching and cutting. Whenever anyone noticed, I blamed the cat, or running into something, etc, etc. It didn't get bad until my second year in high school. Even throughout counseling, and therapy, I never really stopped; I just found better ways to hide it. A few years later, I got into burning. After that, I got into drugs (street and over the counter). I was grasping for anything that could help me deal with the pain. It was no longer about punishing myself as it had been when I started out. It turned into my way of coping with the feelings I couldn't express out loud.
I have my doubts about being able to stop. If guidance counselors, therapists, psychiatrists, and friends couldn't help me before, why would this instance be any different? Maybe it won't be, or maybe it will. My friend told me that I needed to learn how to love myself. I never understood how to love myself because no one has ever loved me enough to love myself. My friend loves me more than I love myself. I love her more than I love myself. I guess maybe that's the problem.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Therapy
For the past week or so, I've been contemplating going to see a therapist/psychiatrist/psychologist, or whatever you want to call it - same shit, different degrees. I'm still on the fence about it. I don't have insurance, so I'd have to pay out of pocket. I could handle that if I could find one who accepted payments on a sliding scale. Then there is the issue of getting there without my family knowing, as my parents are not very...fond...of the idea of therapy (for obvious reasons). Finally, there is the issue of it actually helping or not.
I saw my first therapist in high school. I was a sophomore when my guidance counselor pretty much told my parents that if they didn't get me help, I would be suspended/expelled, and they would be reported. Yes, that seems harsh, but you have to consider the fact that I had been having issues since my freshman year and my counselor had made numerous failed attempts at getting me further help.
My first course of therapy was rather unproductive. I went to see my therapist once a week and my psychiatrist once every other month. My first diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder. Of course, that meant daily medication, monthly blood testing, mood charts, and other crap I found to be pointless. The medication didn't make me feel any different and I knew, after researching the disorder, that I most likely didn't have it. As for therapy...well, I think the therapist got more therapy than I did. I know I'm not a very social person, but she definitely talked 85% of the time AT LEAST. She had a lot of personal stories to tell. I rarely got a chance to tell any of mine.
After several months, my therapist got a position at a hospital, and would no longer be doing individual sessions. I saw this as a perfect opportunity out. I pretended I was fine, and didn't need therapy anymore. I promised to see the psychiatrist every other month to check on my medication. I never saw the therapist again, or the psychiatrist for that matter. My parents never made another appointment.
A couple of years passed before I had to see another psychiatrist. This time, it was my job pushing for me to get professional help. Even though I was 19 years old at the time, my boss decided to call my mother and discuss my personal issues I was going through at the time with her. Despite the illegality of that, I didn't have the energy at that time to fight it. They told my mother they would have her arrested, which my mother was dumb enough to believe and she called the doctor the next day.
The second therapist was also a psychiatrist, and much better than the first. He didn't talk about himself nearly as much as my first therapist did. We shared a lot of the same taste in music, we both played the guitar, and had a similar level of intelligence to which I was able to connect more easily than I had with the prior therapist. I also liked the fact that he didn't put me on medication. I told him that I was previously diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. He didn't agree. His diagnosis was PTSD, depression, and anxiety. I saw him every other week, but even that didn't last long. I realized after awhile that he was avoiding talking about certain issues, like self-injury, that I really needed help with. I don't think it was because he was uncomfortable with it, I just think he was probably unfamiliar with it, as many psychiatrists and therapists seem to be. I knew that if I couldn't talk about these issues, nothing was going to change. My family was becoming increasingly agitated about me going to therapy. So I walked in one day, told him I felt better, and never came back to see him again. I thought it was the best decision for everyone.
Since then, I've been dealing with my issues on my own. In some ways, I'm better than I was years ago, but in some ways I'm actually worse. As much as I try to do it on my own, I don't think I can. I am definitely a lot more open about things than I was ten or even five years ago, but being open to people who can't really help me isn't beneficial to me in the long run. I just wish I could find someone who really understands my issues.
I saw my first therapist in high school. I was a sophomore when my guidance counselor pretty much told my parents that if they didn't get me help, I would be suspended/expelled, and they would be reported. Yes, that seems harsh, but you have to consider the fact that I had been having issues since my freshman year and my counselor had made numerous failed attempts at getting me further help.
My first course of therapy was rather unproductive. I went to see my therapist once a week and my psychiatrist once every other month. My first diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder. Of course, that meant daily medication, monthly blood testing, mood charts, and other crap I found to be pointless. The medication didn't make me feel any different and I knew, after researching the disorder, that I most likely didn't have it. As for therapy...well, I think the therapist got more therapy than I did. I know I'm not a very social person, but she definitely talked 85% of the time AT LEAST. She had a lot of personal stories to tell. I rarely got a chance to tell any of mine.
After several months, my therapist got a position at a hospital, and would no longer be doing individual sessions. I saw this as a perfect opportunity out. I pretended I was fine, and didn't need therapy anymore. I promised to see the psychiatrist every other month to check on my medication. I never saw the therapist again, or the psychiatrist for that matter. My parents never made another appointment.
A couple of years passed before I had to see another psychiatrist. This time, it was my job pushing for me to get professional help. Even though I was 19 years old at the time, my boss decided to call my mother and discuss my personal issues I was going through at the time with her. Despite the illegality of that, I didn't have the energy at that time to fight it. They told my mother they would have her arrested, which my mother was dumb enough to believe and she called the doctor the next day.
The second therapist was also a psychiatrist, and much better than the first. He didn't talk about himself nearly as much as my first therapist did. We shared a lot of the same taste in music, we both played the guitar, and had a similar level of intelligence to which I was able to connect more easily than I had with the prior therapist. I also liked the fact that he didn't put me on medication. I told him that I was previously diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. He didn't agree. His diagnosis was PTSD, depression, and anxiety. I saw him every other week, but even that didn't last long. I realized after awhile that he was avoiding talking about certain issues, like self-injury, that I really needed help with. I don't think it was because he was uncomfortable with it, I just think he was probably unfamiliar with it, as many psychiatrists and therapists seem to be. I knew that if I couldn't talk about these issues, nothing was going to change. My family was becoming increasingly agitated about me going to therapy. So I walked in one day, told him I felt better, and never came back to see him again. I thought it was the best decision for everyone.
Since then, I've been dealing with my issues on my own. In some ways, I'm better than I was years ago, but in some ways I'm actually worse. As much as I try to do it on my own, I don't think I can. I am definitely a lot more open about things than I was ten or even five years ago, but being open to people who can't really help me isn't beneficial to me in the long run. I just wish I could find someone who really understands my issues.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Memory Fail
Something happened tonight that was a real eye opener for me.
I was heating up some left over ham and rice in a pan on the stove. It was done in under ten minutes, and I put it on a plate and ate it. Later on, I went to reach for something on the wall towards the back of the stove, and felt the heat of the coil on my arm. I had forgotten to shut the stove top off. I had left it on high for God knows how long. Something could have caught fire. No fires occurred, but it's still scary.
I wouldn't be worried if this was a once-occurring incident, but for the last three months my memory has gone to shit. I started forgetting names. I spent over an hour one night trying to remember the last name of someone who I have known for over five years. I brushed it off and attributed it to being tired, but I continued to have the same problem. I'll be having conversations with people and forget what I was going to say in the middle of my sentence. I forget words randomly and find myself describing them to people instead. I will go somewhere specific and forget why I've gone or what I'm supposed to do. I thought it would go away, but the problems seem to just be getting worse. It's frustrating to me, and it adds a tremendous amount of stress to my already over-stressed life.
One of my friends jokes around that I'm an old lady because I piss my pants, occasionally use a cane (when my arthritis is bad), can't breathe right, and can't remember anything. One night she told me I had "nothing to look forward to." I'm not sure if she was joking or being serious, but either way it hurt. When you think about it, she's right. As we age, health declines, not improves. If I'm functioning like this at 24, what the hell am I going to be like at 34, 44, and 54? I don't even want to think about it.
I was heating up some left over ham and rice in a pan on the stove. It was done in under ten minutes, and I put it on a plate and ate it. Later on, I went to reach for something on the wall towards the back of the stove, and felt the heat of the coil on my arm. I had forgotten to shut the stove top off. I had left it on high for God knows how long. Something could have caught fire. No fires occurred, but it's still scary.
I wouldn't be worried if this was a once-occurring incident, but for the last three months my memory has gone to shit. I started forgetting names. I spent over an hour one night trying to remember the last name of someone who I have known for over five years. I brushed it off and attributed it to being tired, but I continued to have the same problem. I'll be having conversations with people and forget what I was going to say in the middle of my sentence. I forget words randomly and find myself describing them to people instead. I will go somewhere specific and forget why I've gone or what I'm supposed to do. I thought it would go away, but the problems seem to just be getting worse. It's frustrating to me, and it adds a tremendous amount of stress to my already over-stressed life.
One of my friends jokes around that I'm an old lady because I piss my pants, occasionally use a cane (when my arthritis is bad), can't breathe right, and can't remember anything. One night she told me I had "nothing to look forward to." I'm not sure if she was joking or being serious, but either way it hurt. When you think about it, she's right. As we age, health declines, not improves. If I'm functioning like this at 24, what the hell am I going to be like at 34, 44, and 54? I don't even want to think about it.
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