Entry #684454, added on 01-20-10 @ 11:01 am EST
Entry Access Restriction: None.
| fibromyblahblah | Entry #684454 |
The chest hurts again, like it's bruised, like the bones are fighting to break through the skin. It's not pleasant, and I'm wondering if the doctor is wrong about it being a muscle issue. I'm feeling like this is related to bad posture, like my bones are seizing after years of putting off exercise. The doctor only palpated the area, felt it, that is, and I can't see how she would arrive at a diagnosis so easily. I worry about becoming one of those people who moan about chronic pain incessantly, never moving, never improving. I don't want this.
Yesterday, at school, a woman came into the lunch room and asked to join C. and I. I had just asked C. what her top five passions were and she was mulling it over, saying that it was an interesting question because how often do we really sit down and think about what makes us happy? So, while she mulled, this large, bespectacled lady sat down with us and hijacked the conversation. I didn't mind, necessarily, because I have spoken with this woman before and I get the impression that not a lot of people talk to her. She's loud, she's a bit of a complainer, but I do respect that she's the kind of woman who will drive across the country on her own and not think twice about it. Without asking what we were discussing, she launched into a story about a job interview she'd had the day before, how she had given all the answers they'd been expecting and how she even re-established the connection between them when it was lost (it was video conference interview). She'd shown initiative! She'd shown resourcefulness! And then, she told us that she shown them that she suffers from fibromyalgia and depression. I looked at her like she was insane, apparently, because she immediately started justifying herself even though I had said nothing.
'I self-identified,' she explained. 'They are specifically looking for minorities and people with disabilities because it's a government position, so I self-identified. I consider my depression a disability because I was off work for seven years.'
Oh.
'I didn't see any reason to hold it back, in fact, I thought it might improve my chances.'
It won't.
'You think it was a mistake?' she asked, then. I could see she was wanting some reassurance, but my face, this serious-looking, non-poker-like face, wouldn't let me give it.
'Well,' I started, slowly, 'I can see how you'd think it's a disability, but to be honest, I don't think that's how prospective employers will view it. What they refer to when they say 'disability' is more of a physical impairment or developmental issue, not emotional problems.'
'So, you think I shouldn't have mentioned it, then?'
'Umm, well, they might appreciate how forthright you were in admitting it.' This is code for no, I really think you blew your interview by telling them this.
The thing is, I've known many people who have fibromyalgia. Essentially, this is muscle pain, which is the literal translation of the word, and it was formerly known as rheumatism. It appears to be a really unpleasant condition, and I have sympathy for people who have it, but I have to be honest: I'm suspicious of it as an illness for the sake of being an illness on its own. The reason for this is that everyone I've known personally to have this condition have also been people who are known to be depressed or sloth-like, both conditions preceding the muscle problem. My aunt, for an example, was diagnosed with it years ago, but only after years of being one of the most unhappy people I'd ever seen, in a bad marriage with two difficult children, with no real social life and who seemed most content lying around her house feeling sorry for herself. The woman I was speaking with yesterday is one of these types, with two grown children who only talk to her when they want money, and a sister who lives next door to her but never calls or visits. She's lonely, and she's sad about it, but the thing is I can't deny that she is difficult to be around because she is always complaining. I'm essentially a stranger to her but I still know all about how the inheritance was divided up after her mother died, and how she's angry that her brother got the house and her sister got about forty-thousand dollars despite an outstanding loan to the mother. I know the sister-in-law got the good china, and that all she got was a gravy boat, and I know that her son has ADD (oh sweet jaysus, another modern disease), but that he was able to impregnate his girlfriend before dumping her and that he can't work because of depression issues, but he can socialize and play video games like it's an occupation. I hear all of this and I wanted to grab her and shake her, maybe smack her a little, because I loathe those people who play the 'victim card'. We're all victims in a way, but you have to keep moving.
The fibromyalgia/depressed/ people are a certain 'type'. As someone who has interviewed hundreds of people myself, I feel confident in saying that these are not the types who make desirable employees. They're the ones who move slow, take longer breaks, who infect the moods of those around them, and who find everything wrong with existing systems. I have never been surprised by any of them suddenly leading others with a sing-song voice or a 'we can do it attitude', because they're too busy holding their necks, popping anti-depressants and waiting for sweet death to come claim them. My aunt, for example, is the consummate downer. She has nothing in her life that appears to make her happy, and because of this, I don't keep in close contact with her. I once suggested she have an affair, as a joke, and she got very offended and sanctimonious about it, even when I attempted to explain it was just my weird humour. But, after a while, I got tired of the tirade and blurted something to the effect of 'I believe a good roll in bed with someone would solve a lot of your problems', and to be honest, I meant it. She went quiet, then. It's been something like eleven years since my uncle died, and before that he was sick for a year, so I'm thinking that she hasn't had sex in at least twelve years, likely more. Would it heal everything? Certainly not, but it would be a wonderful distraction, and I'm of the firm belief that love (and occasionally good sex) heals most wounds.
On the flipside, I also think it's horrible that people can't be honest about their mental/emotional issues. The stigma of being incapable of handling things is always there, and that's wrong, because what most people in these situations need is stimulation and focus. A job provides these things, and even when I was at my very worst with panic, I still did my job well. The thing I steadfastly refused to do was hide what was bothering me, because I believe it's healing to talk, and also, I wanted people to know why I was behaving the way I was. It wasn't because I was irritable or mean or 'crazy', but because I was feeling awful and being honest actually made me feel better. This is what made the employees come to me when they were in trouble and needed to talk, because they saw me as someone who would not only understand, but possibly provide comfort. Sometimes, keeping everything inside made me feel like giving up, because I was consumed with it, but talking about it with people who seemed to appreciate what I was experiencing made it lighten considerably. When my manager told me that she thought I should maybe not tell people about it, I said I understood why she felt that way, but it isn't my style. I not only wanted to help myself, but also wanted to help other people by being open, and frankly, it worked. Do I use it as a tool? I hope not. I don't intend to, anyway, but I'm sure it's been a factor in getting me out of doing things I didn't want to do on occasion. Do I talk about it too much? Probably in the eyes of some, but mostly I keep it to this journal and to those close to me who understand and try to help me get through the tough days. It's part of who I am, and most of the time, I'm okay. Would I tell a prospective employer any of this about me during an interview. Um, emphatic no. As evolved as I like to see myself, I get that most people aren't there yet. I also wouldn't tell them that I hate Sunday shopping because I think there should be a day off for everyone, that I can't stand turnips and that I have an interest in the paranormal. Some things should be a surprise.
Top Five Passions
1. Food, and not just eating, but the architecture, design, chemistry and texture of food. It is not just sustenance, but experimentation, sex and love, on a plate.
2. Writing poetry, writing in a journal, attempting to write stories...writing, then.
3. Anything to do with the paranormal as mentioned above. I find the possibility of other dimensions fascinating, just as I do the possibility of a soul. I actually like that we don't understand it because mystery is delicious and endless.
4. Films. I love movies and would happily watch very little else. I believe that real actors are artists and I am confident that I could never do what they do, which is why I find myself interested in them. I adore stories in colour, or in black and white, as long as the story is worth telling.
5. The past: antiques, old photos, old stories. I run my fingers over yellowed pages in old books and imagine the fingerprints of the dead on them, try to imagine what these people looked like, how much they loved the book, etc. I can't get enough of hearing about times I didn't exist in. There's something hauntingly romantic in all of it.
There are others, too. Obviously, I've taken it upon myself to figure out emotional problems, and I'm not letting the fact that Freud couldn't get a grip on it stop me. I want people to be happy and I figure I stand as much chance as anyone in figuring it all out. I am also aware that I dwell on it, but I'm working on that. I am also passionate about chocolate, which is a food, but important enough to be in its own category. I am passionate about passion, as it turns out, and yesterday at school I could not focus on my studies because I kept imagining all kinds of sexual scenarios and found myself red-faced and hot for most of the afternoon. I held my pen in my hand and suddenly it seemed to swell up and become a penis, that sort of thing. I love photography and looking at photos, appreciating the artistry in them. I adore good conversation, music and watching the small worlds in gardens. Obviously, I am passionate about my man, my girl and my family, but the passions that shape my personality are the ones I'm writing about here. I am passionate about friendship, love and decency, none of which seem to develop without effort.
I wholeheartedly believe that if you have passions in your life, you will numb yourself to a lot of the pain you think you're feeling. The reasons for them may not make sense to you, but if the passion is there, it's usually pure and has its own reasons. The worst part of feeling depressed was not being able to connect with the things that I used to care about, but eventually it passed and I gathered them close once more.
C. said that she was going to go home last night and think about the question. I was touched that she cared enough about it to do that, mostly because it was just an impulsive question. She said she couldn't think about it when the other woman was sitting there, prattling on about all her problems. I nodded in agreement. The other woman is clearly a soul-sucker and doesn't even know it. I did tell the other woman, though, that she can overcome her problems, and she told me that her problem is chemical, that her doctor has her on antidepressants. Oh?, I'd said. I then told her that she can change her chemistry if she changes her thoughts, that it's a scientific fact, and that all she needs is a little gumption and maybe a passion or two. I'm not a doctor, I'd said, but I know a little bit about emotional trouble and there's no pill on the planet that's going to fix any of it. She looked at me like I was crazy, and I smiled. She's just not there, yet, and she may never be. That's just how some people are.
I swear I'm going to lose my mind if she comes into the lunch room and tries to take over the conversation again. There's that and the fact that she smells weird, like cabbage in a colostomy bag.
I said I like to see myself as 'evolved' but I am aware that this might be wishful thinking.
|
© Copyright 2010 katwoman45 (UN: katwoman45 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
katwoman45 has granted Writing.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
Content Rating Notice: Recommended for Readers 18 Years and Older Only
Static Items
Books
Forums
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
