This is a blog post I wrote on November 16, 2010. I was unable to upload it because I could not access my account. I managed to harvest the account information off of my old, nearly dead, laptop. I post it now.
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I have come to the inescapable conclusion that I am unstable. Crazy. Nuts. Loony. Where have I been? My husband came home in July and I was letting him use my computer for a while, so I didn’t want him to accidentally come across this blog—my secret blog. Then when he finally got his computer going, I had gone to work. I got a job. I started at the end of August. I applied for a sales position in insurance. Due to a series of miscommunications, flub-ups, and just plain stupidity on all those involved, me and six other people were given jobs in the call center portion of the company. Call center. I worked in a call center from 99 – 01, and I swore I would never do it again. And here I am.
I have tried, and tried, and tried to make it work, but the truth is, I just suck at it. The database they use is over-sophisticated and –developed. It is incredibly difficult to use, and one cannot rely on intuition like most Windows-based applications, it is based on remembering how to use the fucking thing. And my memory sucks. Big time. And why I didn’t go to law school.
I also have—ADD—yep, and some other perceptual issues that make me look lazy or stupid. I can see it in the eyes of my superiors when they try to counsel me, or as they call it “coaching” or “opportunities.” I was actually called in to the office by my boss because I was between calls, in a limbo called “aftercall” that is, a button I can push to tidy up the previous call before I allow the next one to come through, he chewed me out for taking a bite of a cinnamon roll while in after call. He didn’t see me, it was a pregnant floor Nazi who’s acquired the moniker of “Elephant Feet” due to her stomping around the office as if there were a bowling ball attached to each foot—and she’s a normal weight except for being pregnant. She told my boss I was stuffing my face in aftercall. A matter of ending the call, picking up the food, and taking a bite. What? Ten or twenty seconds, at most? I get called on the carpet for taking a bite of a sandwich? Seriously. This place is food central. Today we had birthday cake for doing such a super awesome job getting 97% of the employees to sign up to donate to United Way. Those over-charging administrative mutherfuckers. I won’t give them a dime. Their overhead is a whopping 13% of costs. And when I needed help, they did nothing for me. Fuck them.
Yesterday we had bagels, and on Friday we’re having donuts. I’m putting on weight. I can’t say no to those donuts. I try to eat as many as possible—usually four. I’m slowly killing myself.
Today I had “coaching” with a woman who generally makes me cry. She’s like a viper, smiling in your face, all the while trying to decide the best place and time to strike. She misconstrues and lies, too, then denies it.
And she pointed out some fuckups that I’d made. And when we relistened to the calls, she was right. I had mis-heard, and mis-handled several things that needed doing. And it’s the same old shit that happens to me with jobs that need extreme attention to detail—I can’t do it. Literally. She even said, “it seems as if you were distracted, as if you weren’t paying attention.” I wanted to look her in the face and go DUH!! I have ADD. And other perceptual handicaps, both visual and hearing.
I can’t do this job. And it’s demoralizing to me. It’s degrading having 25-year-olds with three years of work experience tell me what a moron I am and look at me like I have an eye in the middle of my forehead. I sit at my desk and either cry or try not to cry EVERY DAY. I fantasize about killing myself and how and where, and what to do with my kitty before I die. Is that the best way to spend ones’ day? Is that healthy? I think not. I told my husband tonight, I’ll work through Dec. 3, and then I’m done. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t handle the emotional rollercoasters, the humiliation, the shame, and the knowledge that I am not now, nor will I ever be, good at anything except eating donuts and drinking coffee.
And I’m crying again. It’s too much.
Postscript July 2011: I did quit that job. On January 12, 2011. I was trying to go to the end of January, but I became ill, again, and knew a write-up was waiting me when I returned. I did get paid for all the good holidays, however. :-)
I haven't worked since. Not for money, anyway. I've been doing a lot of writing and freelancing stuff for friends....for free. But I am happy. I really am.
