Relief
After looking for work for 57 days, applying to 34 jobs and having 6 interviews, Jason accepted a wonderful job offer yesterday. I cannot tell you how relieved and happy and excited we are. We hardly know what to do with our free time, now that it’s not being taken up by searches on indeed.com or writing yet another cover letter to an employer who won’t bother to give out any information on the position, such as the rate of pay, the type of business they’re in, or even where they’re located.
We are so happy. But lest you think everything was roses and pink ponies, here’s what I wrote back on April 17th:
The alarm beeps its incessant wake-up call and I buy myself another seven minutes of avoidance. For perhaps the millionth time, I wonder why I cannot be the type of person who leaps out of bed before the alarm; the type of person who greets the morning with outstretched arms rather than a defiant finger. Instead, I am the person who repeatedly carpal-tunnel-slaps the snooze button, who needs to kick and pull my way to the surface of wakefulness, holding my breath; someone who can’t surface too quickly without experiencing a shaky sense of nausea.
My head hurts for the fifth straight day, whether from lack of sleep or stress, I’m not sure. My eyelids feel the pull of gravity; my upper lashes want to embrace my lower lashes and remain pressed there forever. I am so tired of this.
It’s another day. Another day where Jason is unemployed and we are helpless, bound by events that are now beyond our control. We are in an unceasing pattern of repetitive limbo: we’ve scoured job postings, filled out applications, sent out cover letters and résumés, and even had some interviews. But all we can do is wait. For how long? We don’t know. And that lack of knowledge is slowly destroying us.
Before Jason quit, we ran through the possible scenarios like seasoned military personnel: we had Plan A, Plan B and Plan C. And now, every day that passes erases everything we’ve built: our carefully constructed plans, our sprinting-out-of-the-gate optimism, our solemnly promised trust.
It’s only been 12 days, and already we no longer know how to talk to each other.
Innocuous comments are taken the wrong way. Simple requests are analyzed for sarcasm, then re-checked for hidden meanings. We feel claustrophobic; there’s no space to breathe or think or reflect. Our feelings are always on the surface, raw and throbbing, yet we make no mention of them.
We’re tired of talking in circles. Of rehashing the same scenarios. Of lamenting the same obstacles. Of hearing the offhand encouragement: “Oh, he’ll find something soon.” I’m tired of sharing my fears and anger and frustration, of not having the luxury to vent anymore simply because it’s too exhausting.
He’s tired of doing things around the house, things that give him a sense of validation and accomplishment, only to face questions about why he spent money. Questions that imply: We cannot afford this. He spends his days in an unfathomable Catch-22: he finally has the time to do things, but we need to save our money. Just in case.
All we want is for things to be normal. To come home from work, cook dinner together and just enjoy our life. But it’s all we can do to power through the day, wearing heavy coats of despair with sleeves that have to be cuffed because they’re way too long.
I am caught off-guard when coworkers ask about the wedding plans. It’s only five months away and even though most of the details are already arranged, I know there’s things I could still be doing – readying the invitations, reserving hotel rooms, researching flowers – but I just can’t. Not now. I promise myself I’ll think about things again when this is over.
I’ll go out to lunch again when this is over. I’ll buy that shirt when this is over. We’ll paint the deck when this is over. When. If. When. If. When.
I vacillate between obnoxious optimism and frightening frustration that strains to punch the rose-colored glasses off my face. I’m jealous Jason’s at home, even though I know he’s there shoulder-to-shoulder with the huge looming fear of not knowing when he’ll work again. I’m scared and scatterbrained at work, shifting the boulder of stress from shoulder to shoulder while juggling meetings and revisions and deadlines. I feel like a too-full balloon, wanting to release just a little bit of anxiety, but not knowing how without losing control.
He calls me during the day to ward off loneliness; I only want to hear that he’s gotten a job. My heart leaps every time I hear his voice, but he can hear the disappointment in mine. “I’m sorry,” he tells me.
I tell him it’s all right, even though it’s not. Not right now, but maybe someday soon.
That someday started yesterday.
