Chainsaw on tree limb, a mulching truck on the driveway, the rumpus of men shouting instructions and warnings, branches falling from the canopy of an old eucalyptus to the right of my house. My attention runs from the house away from the noise, while I remain inside trapped, unemployed, waiting for calls that never arrive.
Four months have passed since I left my adjunct teaching job at Tulsa Community College in Oklahoma, three months since I relocated to Los Angeles, CA. In this period I have filled out uncountable job applications online, the new way of looking for a job; leave to an algorithm to ruin your life.
My expectations started high, searching for jobs that matched my experience and qualifications: adjunct teaching, or academic advisor, training specialist, basic adult education teacher. As time went by, I now apply for jobs that don’t require special qualifications, and even for jobs for which I am grossly overqualified.
I’ve had three interviews, three in four months. My heart sinks when I think about it. These meetings have apparently gone well and have left my chest full of hope and possibilities for the future. After each interview I’ve gone back home, cooked dinner, or sit by the window to crochet. Days go by.
I check my phone; make sure that the ringer button is up and not in vibration mode. Every so often I lift my eyes from whatever I am doing and check the phone screen for messages, just in case I don’t hear the phone. The employers had promised to call, but they never do. And so my days go by waiting, writing, hoping. Days after a deadline for a job call passed, I wonder what went wrong, what I could have done differently.
My routine is disrupted by lack of concentration. I continue writing my book, hoping to have a first draft ready by the end of October. I also participate in online classes and dutifully read my peers submissions for the week, trying to write meaningful responses. But I feel like a fraud. Although I have written daily for two years, and have completed several stories and poems, I haven’t been successful at placing my work in a magazine or winning a contest. I recognize the negativity of my thoughts, but continue writing. A single rejection letter arrives. It says I almost made it to the top list of a short-short fiction category. Thanks.
“Be proactive,” I tell myself. I decide to volunteer to a.) Gain purpose, b.) Network, and c.) Expose my name to potential employers. On October 11, I walk for NAMI against Stigma. As I stroll along Downtown LA, talking with a nice lady I just met that morning, sharing our experiences, I feel the importance of making new friends. A call for a speaking engagement with In Our Own Voice arrives next. Then I spend the week practicing for my speech about what it means to live with a mental disorder. On Saturday, the audience is receptive and participative. They want to know more, they share their own struggles with their mentally ill relatives. My voice breaks at the end of the speech. What I don’t tell them is that I am tired of looking for a job.
After the IOOV presentation, my husband and I go downtown in search of food. Luring smells welcome us along with the rumpus of indistinctive voices in the air, shouting orders, laughing, and talking to each other in this hub of commerce that is the Grand Central Market. We order pupusas (arepas) with beans and two Jamaicas and take our seats on the century old stall. Memories from my homeland flood my mind, as I eat from my plate and my husband snaps pictures of the colorful place.
“There is nothing to complain about my life,” I tell myself. I am afraid to complain about the lack of employment. I don’t want to be ungrateful about everything else I have. But it’s heavy on me. I try to shake the negativity, but it doesn’t go away.
Mentally ill or not, a woman needs her job. A paycheck at the end of the month feels good. Besides I don’t want to feel I am burden to my family; I want to safe for my future. I used to call myself a feminist, but now I am embarrassed, because I don’t work and my husband supports me. I insist there must be something I can do.
Today is Sunday. I go out for a walk, feel the fall-ish sun on my skin, not warm, not cold, just so. Living close to the coast has its advantage. It only takes a walk outside, overlooking the ocean to energize. Somebody will call. Monday I will fill out more applications. In the meantime, writing is the only thing I can count on for sure.
Sierra eléctrica contra la rama de un árbol, un camión destructor de madera en el callejón, la algarabía de hombres gritando instrucciones y alertas, las ramas cayendo desde el tope de un eucaliptus viejo a la derecha de mi casa. Mi atención huye del ruido y escapa fuera de la casa, mientras me quedo atrapada, desempleada, esperando llamadas que nunca llegan.
Cuatro meses han pasado desde que dejé mi empleo como profesora adjunta en el Tulsa Community College en Oklahoma, tres meses desde que me mudé a Los Ángeles, California. En este período he llenado innumerables solicitudes de empleo en línea, la nueva manera de buscar trabajo. Nada como un algoritmo para arruinar tu vida.
Tenía altas expectativas al comienzo. Buscaba empleos a la par de mi experiencia y calificaciones: profesora adjunta, consejera académica, especialista en adiestramiento, profesora de educación básica para adultos. A medida que pasa el tiempo, solicito empleo que no requieren calificaciones especiales, e incluso empleos para los que estoy obviamente sobre calificada.
He tenido tres entrevistas, tres en cuatro meses. Se me cae el corazón cuando lo pienso. Estas reuniones han salido bien aparentemente y me han dejado el pecho lleno de esperanza y posibilidades para el futuro. Después de cada entrevista, he regresado a casa, cocinado la cena, y me he sentado tejer cerca de la ventana. Los días pasan.
Reviso mi teléfono; me aseguro que el botón del timbre esté activado y no en modo de vibración. Cada cierto tiempo levanto la vista de lo que sea que estoy haciendo y reviso la pantalla en busca de mensajes, no vaya a ser cosa que no haya escuchado el teléfono. Los empleadores han prometido llamar, pero no lo hacen. Y así han pasado los días esperando, escribiendo, con esperanza. Días después de una fecha límite para un empleo, me pregunto que salió mal, que pude haber hecho de otra manera.
Mi rutina se altera por la falta de concentración. Continuo escribiendo mi libro, con la esperanza de tener un primer borrador listo a finales de octubre. También participo en clases en línea y responsablemente cada semana leo las piezas de mis compañeros e intento escribir respuestas de calidad. Pero me siento como un fraude. A pesar de haber escrito a diario por dos años, y haber completado varios cuentos y poemas no he tenido éxito colocando mi trabajo en una revista o ganando un concurso. Reconozco la negatividad de este pensamiento, pero continuo escribiendo. Una carta de rechazo llega, solitaria. Dice que casi alcancé figurar en la categoría de cuentos cortos-cortos. Gracias.
“Se proactiva,” me digo a mi misma. Decido trabajar de voluntaria para a.) tener propósito, b.) establecer relaciones, y c.) exponer mi nombre a empleadores potenciales. El 11 de octubre camino con NAMI en contra del estigma. Mientras paseo tranquilamente por el centro de Los Ángeles, hablando con una señora simpática que recién conocí ese día, compartiendo nuestras experiencias, siento la importancia de hacer nuevos amigos. Luego me llaman para dar una presentación con el programa En Nuestra Propia Voz. Entonces me paso la semana practicando mi discurso sobre lo que significa vivir con un desorden mental. El sábado, la audiencia es receptiva y participativa. Quieren saber más, comparten sus historias de batalla con sus familiares afligidos por una enfermedad mental. Mi voz se quiebra al final del discurso. Lo que no les digo es que estoy cansada de buscar trabajo.
Después de la presentación de ENPV, mi esposo y yo vamos al centro a buscar que comer. El olor a comida nos recibe junto al escándalo de voces indiscernibles en el aire, gritando sus pedidos, riendo, hablando los unos con los otros en este hervidero de comercio que es el Gran Mercado Central. Ordenamos pupusas (arepas) con caraotas, dos te de jamaica, y tomamos asiento en el cuchitril centenario. Los recuerdos de mi país de origen me embargan, mientras como y mi esposo toma fotos de este lugar pintoresco.
“No tengo nada de que quejarme en la vida,” me digo. Tengo miedo quejarme por la falta de empleo. No quiero ser malagradecida por todo lo que tengo. Pero me pesa. Trato de sacudirme la negatividad, pero no se va.
Enferma mental o no, una mujer necesita un empleo. Un cheque al final del mes se siente bien. Además no quiero sentirme una carga para mi familia; quiero ahorrar para mi futuro. Solía llamarme feminista, pero ahora me da vergüenza, porque no trabajo y mi marido me mantiene. Insisto, debe haber algo que yo pueda hacer.
Hoy es domingo. Salgo a caminar, sentir el sol otoñal sobre mi piel, ni caliente ni frio, perfecto. Vivir cerca de la costa tiene sus ventajas. Sólo hay que salir y mirar el mar par recargarse de energía. Alguien llamará. Mañana llenaré más solicitudes. Mientras tanto, la escritura es lo único seguro con lo que puedo contar.
Have faith Lisbeth. You’ve been here before.
Thanks for your support, Kay. I am trying.
Sounds like a beautiful day with the conference and the lovely new town you are in; ah. I will be thinking of you this winter. Nice piece!
Thanks, Elisa. I appreciate your reading. Yes, it’s a nice town.
I did the NAMI Walks for NAMI Orange County as well as their Peer-to-Peer classes, but never got a response to my volunteer application besides volunteering for the Walk. I would love to talk publically about my illness. At least MHA OC responded to my volunteer application.
Kitt, we are talking about three different NAMI programs here. Peer to Peer prepares you to be a mentor to fellow consumers; Family to Family prepares you to facilitate classes to relatives of consumers. In Our Own Voice trains the consumer to bring the message of recovery to audiences in the general public. Your local NAMI office should have information about it. Thanks for being such a loyal reader.
Yes, I know. NAMI-OC required that I attend Peer-to-Peer before volunteering in any capacity. I would like to do In Our Own Voice. I have written a piece that National NAMI accepted on their website, but I would like to speak publicly, as well. I applied twice to volunteer for NAMI in OC (one county south of LA). MHA responded to my volunteer application right away. NAMI-OC did not. I’m training right now with MHA-OC to be a Hearing Advocate for those involuntarily hospitalized. Shadowing their staff Hearing Advocates is keeping me busy for now. Perhaps I should nag/follow up with NAMI-OC’s volunteer coordinator.
I think a simple note to your chapter’s president reminding him/her of how interested you are in being part of the IOOV program will suffice.
That would do the trick, I’m sure.
Lisbeth, you presented a IOOV to our group at Harbor UCLA last week. I have finally gotten around to reading some of your blog. I’m so glad I heard you speak first because I can now “hear” your voice in these words. Thank you for volunteering and thank you for writing. Your words are beautiful whether spoken or written..
Amy
Thanks, Amy, for your kind words. It’s encouraging to know that my work is appreciated.