I don't feel bad, exactly . . .

Or "grotty" as I have learned they say over in The Land I Want To Visit So Much It Hurts, aka the UK. 

No, not that.

It's just that I feel like I'm dying.

And I got two moles removed last week that I'm waiting to hear if they are cancer and the very day that I got back from the dermatologist CUTTING me, I look in the mirror and see a brand new dark brown pinprick mole of death right below my eye that I have never seen before and why couldn't I have noticed that BEFORE driving an hour and a half to see the doctor? 

And I'm also applying for a job that looks like a pretty good opportunity - i.e. it pays money and has benefits and although we are supposedly a socialist state now thanks to the health bill I'm not feelin' it yet - and really, it's something that I could do and its not fundraising.  

And I kind of want it.

But J-O-B spells D-E-A-T-H to me for some reason embedded deep within my subconscious and I'm grappling with that, trying to shake it loose because I don't want it.  I know it's an irrational fear and I've no use for those.  And normally I wouldn't worry too much about the moles but my brain is picking up any death signal from anywhere even causing me to look under the bed for serial killers because it is out of control at the moment.

And ok, I thought I wanted to be a kept woman, but maybe not so much since my ability to pick sugar daddies is clearly defective.  My Love is male, and definitely sweet, but he is not rockin' the money thing hard enough to get us where we want to go. 

And really, I don't want to live in the fear that I can't take care of myself, which is where that is based. 

So. Job. 

And applications.  And cover letters.  And ick.

But a strange thing is happening.  As I'm filling this one out, and reviewing my old stuff, for the first time I'm actually starting to toot my own horn a bit.  To realize that maybe I did actually do some good things after all and I wasn't a completely incompetent loser and the good recommendations and awards were maybe, oh, I don't know, REAL, and not a delusion.  (Really, I have actual paper and one is wood and cheap brass, and they spelled my name right, so I know they exist.)

And I'm beginning to sense that maybe I can start to be present in my life, and take pride in my work and not belittle myself, and not take things so personally and not let teeny tiny mistakes ruin my whole life?

Maybe?

For now, let me breathe and go to a happy place.

 
Santa Maria, Cuba, 2008

Comments

[McCaffery]

I really love this post. Just my own grappling with the whole having to work thing and jobs = death. I am glad you are finding the good that you have done and tooting your own horn.
Thanks for posting this, as with all the others you post. Have a nice weekend.

[Stacia]

I'm glad you liked it, but sorry too, because of why. It's an icky mess, and though it doesn't help much, for what its worth I know how much it sucks to be in the place you're in right now.

Though I don't always comment, I do always read and it's rare that I don't come away with something from your posts, just so you know. Thanks to you too.