Writing

I've been writing a lot lately. Obviously, not here. But I have had the opportunity to write letters, mostly to my friend Sherry who has moved to Brooklyn to attend the New York Academy of Art. I forgot how cathartic it is, seeing written word on paper. And unlike e-mail, when I get a return letter, I can't reference what I wrote to her, and I have to rely on memory. (Oh, my lord, have I told you about my non-memory?) It has been a wonderful exercise in written correspondence.

If you're interested in me sending you a letter, leave a comment below!

I had a thought this morning about my new job - a temporary position in data entry at a cell phone tower company. It's both challenging and rewarding. I listen to audiobooks while I enter information, and I'm not side-tracked by constant interruptions from co-workers or competing projects. At the end of the week, I feel like I have contributed to society and earned an honest wage. I need to find a permanent position like this.

There's a voice in the back of my head saying "but wait, Katie, what about that Social Work degree you were going for? Does that mean nothing to you?" To which I reply, yes, it means a lot to me. I am not going back to school, and do not plan on completing this degree, which is a bummer because I have a huge student loan to pay off. I think I learned much more about myself in SW school than about the field. Let's face it - I'm a mess, and I can't be expected to help someone through their problems if I can't even confront my own. I set myself up to fail, and - ta-da! it worked! My involuntary withdrawal from a graduate program at the 8th best School for Social Work in the country was much more a cry for help than getting screwed over by a couple of deficient professors.

This year has been a lesson in learning what I'm going to do for the rest of my life. I may not know exactly what, but I've ruled out "anything in the human services field or human services related or mental health reform". That last sentence sends my heart rate up a few notches - there's so much work that needs to be done on a broken system! Who is going to help all the people that need me? This is exactly why it's not me. I can't help everyone. I need projects that have a beginning and an ending to fulfill my satisfaction quotient.

I will leave on the following anecdote, regarding working with engineers. Somehow between Women's Studies classes and working with mostly female-dominated workplaces since undergrad, I forgot that there are still male-dominated workplaces where females also work. My office environment is different from any other that I've worked at in this way. And engineers are different in that everything has to have a function. The following interaction took place on the elevator this week:

M: It looks like you have green around the edges of your glasses!
K: Yes, it's an acrylic around the glass.
M: What's it for, though?
K: (dumbstruck) To look pretty.

That's something that will not change - there will always be material things in my life just to look pretty.

An open letter to my mother on finding a job

Dear mom,

I really appreciate you trying to help me find a job. I’m sure Starbucks is really missing out on their next barista all-star in not hiring me. I know I shouldn’t set my standards too high, but I think I can hold out a little bit longer for something suited for long-term and stable employment.

I will start by saying I’m sorry. I do not want to work in counseling. I do not want to be a grief counselor either. I do not want to work in a setting that, while rewarding, will compromise my own mental health. 

Furthermore, I do not wish to work with children. The few friends that will let me near their children will testify to the fact that they always return bruised after a casual visit with me (I can’t help it if they fall and get a black eye! But it does look bad on my part).

 Zelda's mom told her I was coming over today.

Notice those two statements and consider this possibility: I do not want to be a child therapist. Or a play therapist, or a sand tray therapist, et cetera. I know you want me to work with children because of all those years of babysitting I did in high school and how much fun I had. The difference now is that I do not have the swim club to babysit at or work in groups with all of my friends. I also charged $2 an hour – that alone is probably why I was so popular.

 I taught my nephew that a little butt-crack is okay to show off. Now he just needs a tramp stamp.

 

As for my mechanical skills: I am not the only kid who knew how to work a VCR. You gave me a little genius lee-way by saying that I put together a VCR in the 3^rd grade. I believe I got a VCR for my birthday in 7^th grade, and I “put it together” by hooking it up to a television set. I was also able to set the clock and record at specific times. I was able to do this based on one simple act that dad taught me: I read the instruction manual. So I do not consider mechanical engineering as a marketable skill; however, I am able to read and follow instructions.

You also mentioned that I wanted to be a writer. Writers do not make money unless they are really good. I never thought of writing as a means of employment. Photography, however, I really wanted to pursue.  Like writing, photography doesn’t pay much unless you are really good, or find a niche that no one else has hit on yet. My photography is mediocre in comparison to the professionals I know*. 

There are several reasons why my knowledge of German is not marketable. 1.) I took it in high school and college and today can barely understand German. 2.) Who speaks German, besides Germans inside Germany? 3.) The German language has the unintended association with Adolph Hitler. While I have a whole separate tirade on the overuse of comparing people, places, and things with Nazi Germany, it is a common (and unfortunate) association.

I need to take a minute to address my position at HopeLine. I was a volunteer coordinator, and was later recruited as the Interim Executive Director. I want to be very clear in the semantics. Interim. I only worked there three months. It was arduous work, and I usually worked 60-70 hours per week trying to regain grant funding and to set up volunteer training. I did not leave because of the callers. Taking calls was the easy part; taking calls and budgeting and recruiting volunteers and coming up with fundraising ideas and setting up speakers and dates all at the same time was a bit overwhelming.

Today was the last straw. I know you have every intention of being helpful.  But you had to go and bring my dead sister into this whole job-search-thing. And not even in a positive way! Since I am writing openly, I will disclose here that my sister was once fired from Kerr Drugs for unknown reasons. We have assumptions, and we can’t ask her why she was fired (or, in my mind, ask her if she really was fired?) I got a phone message from you this morning saying that you thought Kerr Drugs may be hiring for pharmacy technician positions. This is a legitimate referral, except for the fact that it is the same exact job and position that my sister was fired from, at the exact same store, and even though it was over ten years ago, I’m pretty sure it’s the same management. Even if I was able to get past the application and interview process, I would still be doing the same thing my sister was doing all those years ago. And that is kind of creepy.

In sum, I thank you for your help. I asked if you had any critiques of my résumé**, and you stated that it was geared toward Administrative or Office Management positions. The reason for this is because I am looking for a job in Administrative or Office Management. 

As always, I thank you so much for your overwhelming support while I am gainfully unemployed. I have never been so busy with all of these requests from friends and family for free work! I look forward to one day re-entering the workforce, in a job where I can have a salary and be able to use my cell phone from time to time. I do not know what I definitively want to be doing; I just know I do not want to be doing what got me here in the first place.

With love, kindness, and understanding,

Katie

*there are some photographers that should not be making money off of their misuse of expensive lenses; wide angle lenses are not intended to morph group shots of people into extended foreheads.

**for a copy of my résumé, please email katieallenwatson@gmail.com. Tell your friends!

Massage Therapy

I love getting a massage. What's not to like? But I have to tell you about Sherry. She puts the therapy in massage therapy. I had a blast tonight, just talking about how life is going, and it really took the tension off how deep her hands were working. I was telling her how many people tell me "I have to tell you this, but don't post it on Facebook!" Which would be offensive, if I didn't post almost everything on Facebook.

The best part was at the end of the session when she said "you know Katie, I've been seeing you for eight months, and you are not as stressed as when we first started". I started thinking about it. Eight months ago I was in school. I was a mess. I had no idea what I was doing or where I was going, I was concerned about the next deadline, the next assignment, getting everything in order, what I could do tomorrow that I did not have to do today. The school thing didn't work out. But I feel so much better now!

I have come to realize that I may not be making much money. I may not be helping people on a one-on-one basis. But I love my little microcosm of family and friends. I am so proud to be in the presence of such greatness all around me, and appreciate the gifts I have been given. I am surrounded by positive energy.

I realize it is silly to be in graduate school and "not know where you're going". I thought I was on the best path to doing what I want to do with the rest of my life. My 29th birthday was terrible! I had just learned that I would not be returning to school the next semester. Little did I know, this was a blessing in disguise. I still want to work helping people - this has been my life goal since first grade. What I am realizing is that this is a very broad job description, and I have to figure out more specifically how I want to help people. I don't think I want to work in human services or non-profit organizations for the rest of my life. I just want a stable job that pays well and that I enjoy doing. Is that too much to ask?

I find myself liking 29. I can't imagine how stressed out I would be if I were still in school. I will probably go back to school in a few years. It's just not right for me right now. I'm just going to take it day by day, and see what the world holds for me tomorrow.

And schedule my next appointment with Sherry.  White Dahlia - tell them I referred you!

Four Way Stop

I was at a four-way stop today where one driver was confused whether it was "his turn" or not, which reminded me of this story my Paw Paw used to tell, it goes something like this:

Out in the country, if four cars arrive at a four way stop at the relatively same time, the right of way is not the first driver at the crossing, but the car with the biggest tires.

As I was continuing my drive home, I started thinking. Now is a good time to (metaphorically) get the biggest tires. I feel like I need something to show that I have control over something, even if it's as simple as getting the right of way at a four way stop.

Unrelated:

And here's a picture of my nephew, Joshua, hamming it up for the camera

Anger

I have been thinking a lot about anger lately. Because I have this deep-rooted anxiety; and there's a philosophy that anger leads to fear which leads to anxiety. So the question is: what am I angry about? I could wax philosophic until the cows come home - there are so many things I could be angry about.

I believe most of my anxiety lies in fear - the "what ifs" in life. I'm big on "what ifs" - what if I can't pay the satellite bill and we lose service? What if a dachshund has to go to the emergency room? What  if the neighbors hate us because we haven't raked the yard? All are hypothetical - except the first one, which we're getting along fine without TV when we have 3000 DVDs to watch. The anger would come after the crisis, when I realize something could have been done to prevent it.

This week my dad celebrated his birthday. Dad is laid back, yet an early bird and disciplined in his work ethic. His outlook on anger is healthy and seems to work once put into use: things happen. You get angry. If there's something you can do to change it, then do it. If there isn't, then that's it. The past is the past, and you cannot change the past.

I think the hitch is sometimes we get caught up in the part where you try to change these things that happen.

My sister died. I hate it and it makes me sad, but I cannot hold any anger, and I cannot change it.

A couple of weeks ago, I had dinner with two friends from my original UNC School of Social work cohort. They asked me how I was doing after my suspension from the program. I had learned of my suspension in early December, and this was a month later. When I first learned I was not getting a passing grade in a course, I called the professor to see if there was anything I could do to get those 2 extra points; there was not. I talked to my supervisor, who was very forthcoming in that it was too late to change anything.
Finally, I went to the Dean to talk about the Distance Education Program, to try and get some peace of mind that we were getting lower quality professors than full-time students. He seemed offended at this suggestion. To put this in perspective, however, I told him I had met with someone that works in the Learning Center across campus, and they were going to "coach" me in the next semester (for which I was not returning). He had never even heard of the Learning Center, and it seemed to be a new concept to him.

And that was it. I had done what I could. I was not returning to school, there was nothing I could do to change it. I cannot hold a grudge and let it fester inside of me and bring me down to this bottomless pit where I have been before*.

That's anger. You cannot hold onto it until your blood boils, you have to deal with it and then leave it be. Learn from your past mistakes, and take steps to make sure it does not happen again. And move on to the next thing. And believe me when I say I'm not angry.

*working on a post on the history of depression and how I fit that mold.

Migraines

I remember my first migraine. I was probably about 8 years old, and I woke up with a headache. I had a book for school with stories in it, and I had done my homework the night before, but I wanted to read some of the other stories. We were supposed to read fifteen minutes a day, and I wanted to get mine over with so I could play after school. My brother and sister and I usually watched the Disney channel before we had to head off to school, but I had already seen the Mickey Mouse Club episode three times in the past month, so I picked up my reader. I asked mom how long I had been reading, and she said 60 minutes! I knew this was exponentially larger than the assigned reading time (it was early in my third grade year). Mom told me to pack my book bag for school, it was time to go. I looked up, outside the window, and felt a searing pain behind my eyeballs. I told my mom that I had a headache and I didn't think I could go to school. I was sent on my way; headaches were not a valid excuse for missing school in the Allen household. That is all I remember about that day. I probably came home and put a pillow over my head.


I had headaches 2-3 times a week as a child. This was usually explained by having braces. And then as an adolescent, it was PMS. In college, it was stress. As a working professional, it was TMJ disorder. So I got braces again, and was referred to an Orthodontic Surgeon at UNC. The surgeon I met with was very matter-of-fact. I qualified for the jaw-breaking-then-wiring surgery, but it would most likely not be covered by insurance. He went ahead and gave me a price estimate for just the surgery, considering no complications or need for extra hospital care. While he was wiring my jaw, he would be able to do some reconstructive surgery, some liposuction on the cheeks and chin. Overall, the estimate was about the same amount as the loan on my car. Another option offered was to see a neurologist, just to make sure I wasn't suffering from migraines. Many of the symptoms overlap. I figured I would check out this neurology thing, since it was cheaper and less humiliating than being told you need liposuction. Then, a miracle happened. I was given a preventative medication and another to take at the first sign of a migraine. And for the first time since I could remember, I didn't have this dull stabbing sense going through my brain.

This week, I have had a constant migraine in getting the semester completed. Medication isn't helping, nor are those two beers I had. Tomorrow I can get a refill on my awesome pills. But I'm still suffering.

I'm posting this because I have seen and heard many people make excuses about why they don't want to get help for chronic headaches. There are all kinds of theories as to why people get migraines. I had a list of questions ready for the neurologist: were my headaches a result of the head injury I sustained when I was 3? A: maybe. Q: is there a brain scan to tell if there's something wrong with the brain? A: yes, but only in the most serious and debilitating of cases (I think this is when they started realizing my hypochondria) Q: When I die and donate my body to science, and the med students start slicing my brain apart, is there a chance that they can correlate the cause of my migraines back to my head injury? A: no (I stopped here, saving my further questions for WebMD). There are alternative treatments, too. My mom tells me there's an acupuncturist in Greensboro that works miracles in migraines. I haven't had a problem since I began treating with medication, besides the side-effects of the treatment medication.

We all have to advocate for ourselves. It took me 18 years to realize I had a problem with treatment. And take care of yourself!

Seven Year (b)Itch

Yes, it has been seven years since my sister died; seven and a half. My silly, complicated, eighteen-year-old, the-world-is-your-oyster - sister. In the movie The Seven Year Itch, Elwell argues that many men have affairs after seven years of marriage. While I do not have any scientific nor social statistical proof that this is, in fact, accurate, the idea still sticks with me. The idea that after seven years, you start to get restless. Things aren't what they used to be, and maybe you aren't where you thought you would be. You try to look for what is missing, and try to fill the void.

I have been journaling the past month or two, which has been quite cathartic. On July 4th, I had a moment where I thought my life would be so different if my sister were alive. When you graduate high school, the big question grown-ups like to ask is "where do you see yourself in ten years"? My answer was that I'd probably be living in Europe working in Social Welfare or traveling to third world countries or in the Peace Corps making a meager living, possibly as a translator after majoring in foreign languages in University. I never thought I would be married and have three dogs and gain fifty pounds and go to Graduate School for the same thing my aunts and my mother studied. Most of that happened in the past seven years. Actually, the only thing that didn't happen in those seven years is that I had one dog, Bean, who is nine. And I do not have a sister.

I have tried in so many ways to fill the void. I have surrogate sisters that got me through my wedding day. I have friends I can call or text at all hours. My brother is very supportive in ways that Caroline never was. I have a husband that is very sweet and dear and supportive. I have my sister's books and some sketches. I have her initials tattooed on my arm.

My seven year itch feels like a quarter-life crisis. How do I go forward memorializing my sister when it has been so long ago? To continue on, thinking about her everyday, considering what Caroline would have thought or said about something she had seen or done, seems like I'm stuck in an unhealthy pattern. But I think the same things about Rob, so I call him up and ask him, or text him, or meet up with him. I cannot quit having my sister in my life. It is uncomfortable at times - when a three year old asks me if I have a little brother or sister (in a nutshell - yes, a sister, they can be a pain in the rear-end, and they will steal your clothes when you're older).

Here is what I propose: grief counseling. I believe I have life experience that I can pass on to others. That's the goal I am going to have to put my energy into. I will have to answer difficult questions. I will struggle with smoking cigarettes (I'm not a smoker, but I do have a cigarette here and there. Note to new friends: Caroline died due to a cigarette left on a sofa and the resulting CO2, so I have extra guilt added to that one cigarette).  I have new family members and new friends. Life goes on - yet there is still a tug at my heart when sisters go to the movies together or even fight. I will not have that again. And that's okay.

I get moody and bitchy and I don't want to talk about it. A simple thing like a song on the radio will set me off, mostly because Brennan is butchering it. Poor, poor, me; woe as the pain set upon the privileged white woman (this is the major reason I have been against having a blog, but wait, I'm getting there). Classes start this month. I'm not where I thought I would be 10 years ago; who would have thought I would get married in my twenties? But I am totally in love and happy here in my save haven. I will create change at a very small level, but it will be a positive change. I will be a support system. I will be strong when I need to be, and I don't have to be strong all of the time.

 My punk-loving, skater-dating, independent sister still lives on. I will say a phrase that she used to say, or Rob will make a face that reminds me of Caroline. She will be eighteen forever. Things will settle, and soon it will be eight years; then a decade; and on and on. Sometimes I will act eighteen and irresponsible and silly and dance to music that isn't there. And that's okay.