I think it's time for a change.

Waking up before 5 in the morning, before the sun, before Boyfriend, before movement, leaves you with a lot of time to just think. And that is just what I did today. When Pinterest and Facebook could not hold my attention, I laid in the comfort of my bed pondering the nuances of my life. I mostly thought about one thing in particular, one thing that has been weighing pretty heavy on my mind these last couple of weeks but have been too chicken shit to let my teeny audience know. However, my morning contemplation has brought me to a point of acceptance.

Being a peer support specialist is not for me. I know, I have mentioned dissatisfaction with my job in the past, but that was mostly concerned with how freaking little it pays. Money is still an issue, but it is so much more than that. I feel like I overlooked the fact that I am super not a people person when I started down this path. I am more comfortable behind a computer than I am in front of a person. And then turn person into people? Dear god, no. I communicate best through written word as opposed to carrying on a dialogue in the moment. I am just plain awkward. All these factors led me to the conclusion that I am simply bad at my job. Shitty, in fact. Sure, I have a friendly face and a calm demeanor, but aside from that, I don't think I'm really helping anyone. The patients may actually be placating me as I nervously paw my way through the conversation and they sense my discomfort.

The other major point of contention that I have had with being a peer support specialist is the fact that it is massively triggering. HIPPA laws, laws protecting confidentiality, probably prevent me from explaining to the world exactly the what and who and how of this roadblock, but the few people I have confided in assure me that I am not being a pansy. I am dealing with some pretty intense shit. I am in situations that no one should be in, bordering on a safety issue. And given that I have a sordid history with this specific circumstance, it is no wonder that it is fucking with me just a bit. (I know that I have explained nothing in these past 5 sentences, but, ya know, HIPPA.) A part of me feels guilty that I am "running away" from these fears and triggers. But a very rational part of me says that no one should have to, or calmly be able to, face them.

So, come next week, I am pouring all my energy into finding a new job. Maybe something with 9 to 5 hours where I can't wear jeans, save for Friday. Someplace a little bit boring but in that "American Dream" kind of way. A job that may be less fulfilling and noble and more demeaning yet fruitful. Something to tide me over until I can be a full time housewife/writer.

I retract my previous statement.

Blast from the Past: http://zoloftandcoffee.blogspot.com/2013/02/so-cycle-continues.html

"Remember that class I mentioned...? Yeah, I fucked that up already. Who was I kidding? Thinking I could pretend I wasn't a failure long enough to drag myself to a class three days a week for two whole months....The stress of this class is killing me.

The class is about to start. I'm sitting here. Shaking hands. Hyperventilating. Face soaked in tears. Bottle of wine beckoning me. Regretting that I dumped my arsenal of pills over the weekend. Those fucking glimpses of hope ruin everything."

I don't have the time to write a well thought out post. And I don't have the privacy to get emotional in what I write. But there is something I need to say: 

I retract my previous statement. I am not a fuck up. I thank god I dumped those pills. And I say this as a certified peer support specialist. Yup, I finished the class I thought was beyond my capability.

Those "fucking glimpses of hope" may have given me a higher fall when shit hit the fan, but being raised up for that moment gave me a chance to see past the current hell I was in. Past the suicidal ideations. Past the cutting. Past the racing thoughts and psychotic episodes. I saw beyond to a future that included me, a productive me, a happy me. 

And now I'm there. I proved myself wrong. For once I can honestly say that I'm proud of myself. 

Short and Sweet.