i hate my job
but it's good for me (kind of) + february RECAP
I’m sitting in front of my computer reading all the scribblings I have gathered over the last few weeks on my notes, trying to make sense of what I wrote and why. Nothing makes sense. I’m wearing a T-shirt I bought in high school, circa 2016. There are small holes all over the shirt, but I refuse to throw it away— the older the fabric, the softer it gets. I like the sense of familiarity it gives me. It feels like part of my skin.
Right now, I hold on tight to anything that brings me comfort. This torn T-shirt brings me comfort. So I’ll keep wearing it until it is so thin and transparent it disintegrates in my hands.
My mom says wearing torn clothes brings ruin. I defer. I think wearing the clothes you bought at Stradivarius when you were fifteen has the perfect amount of nostalgic sentiment I need in times like this.
A month ago I started a new job, and I hate it. I know I’m lucky, and I am grateful to have found a job fresh out of college. Especially seeing the state in which the job market is. Everyone around me is tired, depressed, overwhelmed, isolated, and can barely afford to support themselves. We are all trying to keep afloat a boat that will inevitably sink. But that’s what humans do. We keep going.
I can’t help but feel like a part of me dies every day that I wake up and work a job I don’t like. I mostly hate it because I have no time to write. That’s a lie. I do have time. I just feel so tired and uninspired that any free time I have I use to fry my brain watching 50-second TikTok videos or doomscrolling on Instagram.
As I write this, I recoil. I have become what I despise— someone who complains about not having time to practice their craft as an excuse for not being disciplined. If you are reading this and you manage to write (and publish) regularly while working full-time, raising children, and maintaining a social life, let meell you, you are my hero. I wish I had more of your dedication. It's probably hiding somewhere inside me. I just need to tap into it.
The first Sunday I worked, I woke up at 5:45 AM. When the alarm rang, I felt like crying. I cried every day that first week. I couldn’t help it. I got ready as fast as I could and left the house. On the ride to the airport, I was thinking about how awful it was to work a Sunday so early. As we made our way through the empty streets, I started to see more and more people out. Waste collectors were cleaning the city. People were opening their restaurants. Factory workers were waiting at the bus stops.
As I stared at the sunrise from the backseat, I realized I was being a crybaby. It was very simple, but seeing other people out on a Sunday at 6:30 AM was a wake-up call. My suffering was not special. Lots of people had it worse than me. I was complaining about nothing. Most of these people are probably barely making minimum wage. I was going to work on a car with AC. I earned more than them. What was I even complaining about?
My job has been good for me because it has humbled me, made me less prejudiced, forced me to work on my fear of rejection, and taught me about accountability. Skills that a spoiled brat like me needed to learn.
When I worked as a project coordinator for a youth cultural exchange program, I went through hell. I was on the clock 24/7; I was a nurse, friend, teacher, counselor, and translator. I had no privacy or free time. It was the hardest thing I did at 21, and it taught me more about life in 3 months than I learned in years.