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My apologies for dropping the ball for the last three weeks.

I’ve been trying to find a job for the last month and have understandably been too depressed to write a blog post. That’s because nothing brings up the self-doubt more intensely than putting myself out there, best foot first – only to discover no one is buying what I’m selling.

I’ve applied for 22 jobs and have not been called for one. Single. Interview.
If I’d gotten any of those jobs, I would have failed, and my life would have sucked. That’s what hurts.

It kills me that I’m trying to get something I completely do not want. I don’t want a job. There. I said it. I’ve tried to succeed living a conventional life, and it has resulted in:
Two breakdowns – bad enough that when our family doctor sees me coming, he cringes just a little.
Loss of three friendly acquaintances because I made them uncomfortable. Nothing I can prove, or speak directly to – but suddenly they’re all too busy for coffee, and I don’t seem to be getting constant Facebook updates like I used to.
Which had resulted in experiments with useful self-medications – including binge watching every half-decent Netflix series, excessive dependency on gin, being an asshole to people who don’t deserve it, and nameless, faceless sex (with my husband)

At the same time, I’m dying to be a real artist. Which means I’ve got to eat it and develop my underdeveloped skills, which is one reason I’ve not put myself out there yet- I suck too much to make what ends up on the page look like my new big idea. But it’s not like I try. I just keep this part of myself locked in my head. My conventional life left me too busy and too apathetic to be authentic. 

That’s also bs. 

I’m just chicken shit.

Just when I’ve got one crisis kind of sewn up, I seem to fall into a new pit. A crisis viper pit. I spend a couple of days lying in bed binge watching Grace and Frankie, crying and looking up cheap rental properties in Port Moody because the impulse to blow up my life is strong. So strong that I’m telepathically daring my husband to walk in the bedroom and say something insensitive or stupid: “What’s for dinner.” or “Are you aware the kids have watched six hours of tv.” Like he’s expecting me to create some educational activities to entertain them.

I fantasize about divorce. Shared custody. Weekends off to do anything I want. I remember it’s been too long since I enjoyed a lovely Sunday hangover. 

I will him to come in here and open his mouth. I’ll make a big scene, throw some shit in a bag. I will not forget my wallet. I’ll take the car. Drive until I find somewhere I like. 

I am also aware that my brain is talking crazy.

The next day I’m a better headspace, but I still suck and it makes me feel guilty. I don’t want to give my kids emotional problems because I’ve been acting insane. I also feel some responsibility to use this as a teaching moment in order to break the stigma of mental illness, etc. etc.
“Kids, depression is a medical condition like diabetes. Sometimes depression happens because my brain is sick and sometimes it’s caused by something you did. ”

This conversation launches a frantic search for someone to tell me what I should do next.

 First I start Googling Career Coaches. All of them sell themselves based on how successful they’ve been. What I need is someone who has failed and isn’t afraid to use this as a selling point. What depressed person wants to pull it together in order to avoid a “Positive Thinking” lecture.

Then I call the Sex Psychic of Yaletown.

“I’m in a crisis. Tell me what to do.”
The next day she calls back to tell me she had a vision while masturbating to an s&m fantasy.
Makes sense.
“Don’t be afraid of the pain,” she tells me. “Find a way to enjoy it.”

I try to decipher her advice. But soon turn to cleaning out my kitchen cupboards. Sometimes cleaning is good medicine. While sorting out the junk drawer, I find a deck of tarot cards I bought in college when I joined a coven just to piss off my religious parents. What the hell. I’m in the mood to try anything so, I shuffle the deck and pull out a card.

I get the Crisis card. In my deck, each card has a poem written on the back.
Here’s what mine says:

We snap you
Crack you
Flapjack you
We are that wild, chaotic place
That sharp edge
The point that activates your fears
The point of no return
The point where anything can happen
We always demand your death
Or complete surrender
You can’t get beyond us
Around us
Or over us
You must meet us and go through us
We are the cosmic steamroller
The place of greatest opportunity
We are Crisis.

So I guess I’m an artist.
An unemployed artist.

Fucking figures.

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