So I have a job interview Wednesday at 10:30. To say I am excited, and nervous, and a multitude of other simultaneous states of being is an understatement. I have not yet let myself officially fret about it, as that can come Tuesday when I get home from work and get everything ready to go for Wednesday morning. My two interview suits have BEEN ready, though I might switch up the scarves on them for the heck of it, as I have approximately two million scarves* to choose from. I might also change the color of the camisole I wear under the blazer while changing out the scarf, as I have a bunch of different colors to choose from there, as well. Including a new tank top that is composed mostly of purple sequins. I am considering that one. I’ll have my mom help me make a decision, as I don’t want to be too ostentatious. I also have new pants I got for Christmas that might go better with one of the blazers than the current dress slacks I have going with it, which might also help my overall feeling of competence. I need to print current copies of my resume, and find my brag book that’s full of notes of commendation and letters from clients over the years.
I do have some reservations about working child services, but once I get into the state system, moving around in it should be easier, if I really can’t handle it. There are plenty of other jobs I qualify for and could feasibly apply to as they come open. One of my friends from my first case manager job, whom I trained there, who then helped me get my second job, has recently switched to child services. She’s one of my work references and when I told her about the interview to make sure she was comfortable with being contacted, she was a bit concerned that I might get triggered by what I see. It’s entirely possible.
I’m not trying to downplay the effect it might have on me, but I am in a completely different mental state than I have ever been in during my professional life. I’m not being constantly haunted by depression anymore, spending more days depressed than not. My go-to thought after something goes wrong is no longer “oh shit, I should kill myself.” I am much more rational and calm (relatively) than ever before. I think I’ve finally had a chance to really heal, and it’s made a huge difference in my overall headspace. I’ve started to WRITE again. I haven’t been able to do that in almost a decade, since I started lamictal. My creativity is coming back, which gives me hope that it wasn’t the medication bogging me down, but my continued ill health that I never had enough of a breather to recover from. I returned from a 72-hour hold to continue the semester, only dropping one class as a medical withdrawal. I then worked all that summer, and completed my senior year, at which point I graduated and moved to Cincinnati the same day. Leaping headlong into adulthood and independence was a grand adventure and I don’t regret it, but I do regret not giving myself time to heal, instead just hoping the meds would fix it. PROTIP: they don’t. It also takes a lot of work, and time, and after nine years, it seems that I’ve finally put in enough of both to reap some of the rewards.
The fifteenth of March marks my ninth anniversary of being admitted to the hospital. While I have visited the ER since then a number of times for suicidal thoughts, I’ve not been admitted again. The twenty-second will be my 30th birthday. I have NO IDEA how to cope with turning 30. None whatsoever. I keep feeling like I’ve wasted my life so far, when the opposite is true. I’ve done a LOT in my thirty trips around the sun. I never, ever thought I’d live to see it.
*This might be an understatement, I love scarves and cannot resist them. I have many scarves. They might eventually consume my closet.