Sell or Die

They said we were to reach our goals or die trying.

No, I'm not a firefighter, I'm not a doctor, I'm not a policeman.

I'm in sales. I sell advertising.

I get that they're trying to motivate us, encourage us, get us to work harder and better so they can make more money. That's the American dream, isn't it? Work super hard and make money. But at what cost? When is it too much?

No, I'm not physically putting my body in harms way. I'm not being tortured, I'm not being poisoned. It's just time. Time spent doing the work and worrying about whether I did it right. It's time spent feeling lost and alone when things go wrong. It's time spent selling someone products I don't believe in anymore.

In the end, all I have to give is my time. I may not be facing a bullet, but if I spend all of my living time dealing with this, I am going to die trying to sell advertising.

That does not motivate me at all.

Worth the Fight

I sell every day. I push and battle and fight with people to try and get them to do what I want. It shouldn't be like that, first of all. But that's not my problem now. My problem is that I fight my own company. I'm tired of trying to battle our own systems. I'm tired of trying to advocate for the customer and being disappointed. I'm tired of trying to believe in a broken system. People are trying to fix it, but it's too little too late.

I'm tired. I don't like this job and I don't want to do it anymore. But I feel trapped. I'm the breadwinner. If I give up, I'm not the only one who suffers. Someone else's business is relying on me to keep going. Our lifestyle, decisions we made, it was all based on how much money I make.

When is it not worth it?

When they let me go, I guess. That day is going to suck.

Rejected

My job is to change people's minds. My job is to pry people away from their most prized possession. My job is to convert people to believers. And my job is to be rejected.

It hurts after a while. I get tired of the words cutting through me. "No, I don't want it." "No, it's not for me." "No, it isn't worth it." "No." I know other people have harder jobs, and I know people aren't rejecting me as a person, but it still hurts. I think that's the simple reason why I can't stand this job anymore. I'm tired of the rejection.

I think it's important as an employee to be valued. I work from home now. I speak to my boss maybe once a week. But I see customers every day, and I see the slump of their shoulder when I walk in the door. I see their eyes wander as they look at anything but me. I hear the aggravation in their voices at the interruption to their important days. I let it get to me, and I know I shouldn't. It's just draining being rejected every day. I wish I were selling something that made people excited to see me. Like cake. I wish I sold cake. At least if I didn't sell anything that day I would have a snack.

Swimming in mashed potatoes. And not the delicious kind with cheese.

I don't feel qualified.
I feel lazy. No, I know I'm lazy.
I have this stupid voice in my head all the time, and it keeps repeating over and over again how frustrated and disappointed it is in me.
I'm not crazy.
I know that voice is me. I know.
It's so easy to hate myself. It's easy to sit on the couch and cry, or to turn on the TV or read a book and forget that life exists. It's hard to get off the couch.
What the fuck?
See, this is the problem. I hate how pathetic I sound. I know a part of me must be doing this for attention. I want a story, I want to hit the bottom so I can begin a triumphant and glorious climb to success. I want my epilogue to be a sweet and beautiful montage of me laughing happily with friends. But I'm stuck here, listening to this stupid voice in my head that just keeps telling me over and over and over how lazy and pathetic I am. And it doesn't say that I can't amount to anything. It doesn't say that I have no hope. It says that there's plenty of hope if I just get off the couch and move.
But I'm afraid to move.
This is so pathetic. I am not depressed. I'm not the Hyperbole and a Half girl. (Whom I adore, by the way.) It would be disrespectful to her and all of the people who are struggling with a real problem to think that my whininess is anything like their disease.
But I still don't feel right.
I cry for no reason.
I avoid talking to people at all costs.
I see a therapist, but it isn't helping the way I thought it would.
Because I went to get help, dammit! This shouldn't be that hard! People have real problems, real problems that need to be solved, and my problems are not that bad!

I'm trying to apply to jobs. I'm afraid I won't get them. Or worse, I'll get them and they won't make me happy.

I'm working from home now. I hate it. Sure, I get to sit in my underwear and pet cats, but it just leaves more freedom for me to sit in a chair and cry. I need to plan ahead. I need to work harder. I need to make myself so busy and involved with something that I don't have time to sit around and cry. That's what I need. I need to force myself to be busy.
Except I'm lazy. And weak. And the cycle begins again.

I've been thinking for months that this job is tearing me apart. But now, I don't think it's the job. I think it's just me.

I want to get better. I want to feel happy. But it's fucking hard. I feel like there's too much gravity. I feel like I'm swimming in mashed potatoes. And not the delicious kind with cheese.

I'm tired a lot.

I wish I was sick. Then I would have an excuse.

I don't want to move anymore. I want to sit in my warm bed and escape.

I can't work on the weekends and stay sane. My boss wants me to. There's paperwork I should be doing. I can't do it. I should be sending emails. I should be trying harder.

Help.

I've read things and seen TV about people who have gone crazy. One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest was a great book. That House episode where he's in the psych ward thing was great. I couldn't finish The Bell Jar because it scared me too much. Am I Sylvia Plath? My therapist almost laughed when I doggedly asked if it was okay for me to read Bell Jar. She said I was fine. I'm fine. I'm not that bad. I'm being dramatic. It's not like I'm going to hurt myself. It's not like I've lost my grip on reality.
I'm just sad. And tired. And it hurts. A part of me doesn't even want a solution. A part of me wants a room with no door. And warm, soft blankets. And hundreds of books, and infinite episodes of Gilmore Girls and Parks and Recreation, and no way for people to get in. And I would have no knowledge of the outside. I would just exist, in that room, and I would have no idea that life could ever be any different or better or worse. Oh, and there would be lots of cheese. And a bathroom.

I don't know what I'm going to do. I don't really want to talk about this because I don't believe it. I don't believe there's really something that wrong with me. No, that's not true. I don't believe it's something help can fix. I have to fix it. I have to get off the couch. I have to stand up and do.

I just wish I didn't want to sit here and cry.

Feeling low

Low

Arrows pointing nowhere

Everyone else following unwritten directions

While I drift through the throng

Push through

Fall through.

I sit down on the pavement

My hands over my head

Frustrated because I’m trying every day.

I try harder than her, than him, than them

Why don’t I get a gold star anymore?

Every day I wake up early

And go to bed sore.

What am I doing wrong?

Where is the happiness at the finish line?

The only endings I see are deadlines I’ve missed.

I need a map, a manual

Clearly marked with straightforward directions.

But nobody seems to have one with my name on it.

And nobody knows who to ask.

So I drift.

Then I push.

Then I sit on the pavement and put my hands over my head

And I cry like a small, weak, lost child.

What do you do with a BA in English?

I did not get a BA in English. I didn't want to read Shakespeare and Milton and Poe and try to apply it to something meaningful. Not that Shakespeare didn't say anything meaningful, but I'm pretty sure everything that could ever be said or thought or believed about him has already been said or thought or believed. Reading literature is fun and all, but the most you can do with it is guess and conjecture. You can "what if" all day and never get anything done. Never say anything.

I wanted to say something.

I majored in writing. Much more practical.

People need writers, don't they? "$15 in 15 minutes" had to come from somewhere, didn't it? Why couldn't that be me? I thought. I could be famous. I could make a living. I could do it.

Nobody told me how, though.

I got so good at following directions. I was so good at school, at writing what they wanted to read, at answering the questions the right way. What do you do when the questions stop? When the tests are over? What then?

I scrambled. I got a job. Not a job writing, because I couldn't find the assignment for that.

I have a confession.

I am afraid I'm not good enough. I have a portfolio of crap. Crap I did in college that nobody wants to see. I have no experience. I've been working for two years in a job I hate with no forseeable way of getting out.

What the hell am I complaining about? I make such good money in this shitty job. So what if it means I get paid to sell people crap they don't need? So what if my job is to walk up to people and interrupt their day? What do I care if people take one look at me and I know they are thinking I am the one person they don't want to talk to, the one person they don't want to see?

This shitty job is taking over my life. I don't know if you know anything about sales. Well, I do know because nobody is reading this and nobody knows everything. Anyway, sales is perpetual. Sales doesn't stop. Sales is as infinite as the sky, as endless as stars, and as difficult to touch. You are always reaching, striving, driving. People driving you, driving each other, driving driving driving from business to business and begging them to give you a chance. Sometimes they do, and then you drive to the next place.

My parents are teachers. I always said I would never be a teacher. Partly because I wanted to break away from what my parents did, partly because I think kids are sticky. But now, I'm jealous. I'm not saying being a teacher is easy. Not by a long shot. I just think it would be nice to have a year end to work for. And summer vacations. And people you see every day that don't hate you, and if they don't talk to you or blow you off, your pay doesn't drop because of it.

I should do something about this. I should quit.

But I can't. It makes good money. I need the money. Maybe in a few years. When I have more money.

But what else can I do? I have no appliable skills. I can be a secretary, I can flip burgers, I can push a button at a factory.

Then why the hell did I do all of that work in school? I can't quit, because then I won't be making good money, and if I don't make money, I have no value.

That's probably a sick way of thinking, isn't it?

I remember, when I was deciding where to go to college, there was this huge book of universities across the country. It listed every school and relevant statistical information about majors, ethnicity, housing, extra-curriculars, tuition, etc. I would sit and peruse for hours, reading, judging, comparing. The options were laid out for me in an orderly, alphabetical book, with all of the information to help me succeed.

They need to make one of those books for careers. I'll start with the A's. Architect: 6 years of education needed, pays $50000 after 2 years experience. Astronaut: No longer available in the US. And so on. Well, maybe I wouldn't want one of those books. Would I want it spelled out for me in black and white that I have no skills beyond convincing people to part with their hard-earned, well-deserved money?

Sometimes my job isn't that bad. Sometimes it really isn't. I know the truth, that I'm really just lazy and I'm tired and I would rather be on summer vacation. I guess I'm just afraid that this is my identity. And I'm afraid my numbers are not going to be good enough this quarter. I'm afraid all the time, and I hate it.

But I'm still no Gryffindor. I'm not brave enough to change. I'll just keep going. I'll do my work, I'll surrender to the man, and I'll wait until I retire. I'll have fun then.