Failure (Again and Again)

August 12, 2021 (-) / 4:10 p.m. / I sometimes impress myself. I have a superpower, one that often goes unnoticed. And no, I don’t mean an actual superpower, like sensing spirits, seeing the future, observing the nuances of others based on their astrological positions, or the ability of a cult leader to manipulate others — powers I have confessed to my campus-appointed psychologist that I sometimes feel I channel, depending on where my mind is. I’m talking about the power of hiding your true emotions and convincing others that you’re absolutely A-OK 👌🏻

Let’s back up, shall we?

In June, I was hired as a news desk editor intern for [anonymous company]. During my second week, me, the new guy, sat alone in the eating area on the tenth floor. That’s when a girl came in and asked, “How are you liking it?”

What I wanted to say: I LIKE IT A LOT BUT I’M GODDAMN NERVOUS AS FUCK.

What I really said: “It’s pretty good. It’s not as hard as it seems. I just have to keep taking notes and listening to [R_F].”

Reasonable.

Collected.

And I did. I bought a notebook, where I took notes on procedures, such as publishing law firm press releases, how to create a new press release, style guides, etc., etc. I even purchased all purple stationary — purple pens, purple sticky notes, purple, purple, purple — because purple helps me when I’m studying. It’s calming. It’s a color that got me through grad school. (So, no, person-who-sat-left-of-me, it wasn’t really about Marie from Breaking Bad. I’m not that stupid.)

Blue and purple are power colors for me. They help me when I’m feeling depressed. They help me when I want to jump off a building to end my life. I think of blue and purple and the world is fine. Black is my favorite color, though. If I could blot out this happy world in black ink, I totally would. Mark through it with a massive Sharpie.

I knew from the start I wasn’t like the clique. All workplaces have a clique. I tried, though. I tried to understand their conversations about toxic this and problematic that and ooo did you know Ariana Grande is idon’tcare — noooo, but omg, did you hear that idon’tcare. But I pretended to care. I contributed to their conversations the best my depressive brain would allow, then later replayed the tape in head over and over again until the film just about burst from my mental cassette. But I eventually realized that I wasn’t like them. Rather, I got along better with my Generation-X trainer, who prefers old school hip-hop and Greek food. Now, did we talk about politics? Yes, but we were pretty much on the same exact page (i.e, screw Donald Trump and screw anti-vax ideologies). During our downtime, we conversed a lot about these topics. And literature. But when it came to work, it was all about work. I watched him, took notes — I have so many notes — and I asked questions. When will I format tables? Is formatting tables hard? Tell me about the diverse range of clients. What is the style guide? Yaddi-yaddi-yadda. And I always asked to watch him when I had nothing to do.

Topics I did not talk about:

• “I really hate myself.”
• “I fantasized about dying.”
• “I question my purpose.”
• “Is there really a point to any of this? As in, life, in general?”
• “Did you know I cried in front of a therapist today? Told her I imagine maggots in my food? That I fear the super computer?”
• “I thought about checking myself in somewhere. Anyway. Am I losing my mind?”

The only time we talked about mental hospitals is when he told me his mother worked at one, and when I confessed to have never seen One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (yes, really), and the ridiculous prices of mental health services in this country and how we need better reform. OK. So maybe the last part could have potentially somewhat hinted at my desire for mental health. Maybe. It didn’t. But maybe. Regardless, there was never that terrible moment when a co-worker confesses to something waaay too fucking personal. Because I don’t want to be that person. Who does?

I may have been a tad awkward, a little eccentric (I hate that word), and perhaps I had trouble making eye contact (I always do), but I was a great worker, especially for an intern who knew nothing. This is a fact, and not one which comes from a place of narcissism. I did good. (Even if I annoyed that one girl because I was used to putting my names on jobs versus tagging an email with colors in the inbox… but oh well.)

But on Monday, I learned I would not be kept for full-time work, nor would the internship be extended.

My reaction: Honestly, for someone who may be manic bipolar or schizo-something, I did well. Perhaps there was a flicker of half-second blankness, but I offered a smile. Not a car salesman smile, but a Oh darn smile. The conversation with my boss went as followed:

Them: “Soo I spoke to HR and [somebody] about potential full-time employment, and it seems as though the original agreement will remain.”

Me: “As in, the internship will not be extended.” (Because I knew then full-time was out the window.)

Them: “Correct.”

Me, giving a Oh darn smile, and then a slip of pain disguised as an attempt at confetti humor: “Well, at least I didn’t sign that lease.”

Casual. A neighbor saying they can’t make it to the barbecue.

Them, who had prior knowledge of this possibility, laughed: “Oh yes, that’s good.”

What I wanted to say: See? I’m anchored to reality, too. I know the art of not getting my hopes up and doing something irrational without a concrete answer. Because money makes the world go round. And though I was pretty certain the internship at least had an extended offer, I didn’t sign my life away. Grr. I’m such a shark right now, trapped in this glass-office tank, and god, do I wanna snap, ha-ha-ha. My life is literally a joke. What’s the point?

What I really said: “But I do want say that I am honored to have been a part of this experience, and that this internship has taught me a great deal about the industry.”

Closed lips, cheeks like quotation marks. Exclamation point inside. I could feel a funnel cloud churning in my head.

Them: “Absolutely! And we are honored to have people like you and —(white nosie)

Me: “I agree. Though I have to ask, was it something I did wrong?”

No attitude. For real. A docile worker. A pinch of a guilt-trip, sure, but just a grain. A question disguised more a self-improvement tip.

I can’t tell if the following response was genuine or bullshit, so I will strip away all condescension and give my boss the benefit of the doubt, because I do not think they are a bad person.

Them: “Oh no, no. We just don’t have the hours available at the moment for another position. However, I do want ask if I can keep your resume on file for a potential full-time offer.”

Hope?

Or bullshit?

Again, I couldn’t (and can’t) gauge this response, nor do I want to jinx it, so I’m just typing it word for word for documentation purposes. I’ve no ill-will towards them, whatsoever.

Me: “Sure. Absolutely.”

There was an awkward moment, though, where we didn’t know what to do next. Shake? Stand? Sit? Rock, paper, scissors? Is this over? I did, however, unintentionalyl radiate a reptilian coldness in that moment — a slip from the It’s quite alright mask I’d quickly, if not near seamlessly, put on. Not towards them, but directed at entirely at myself: Well, you did it again, Fuck-Up, Incorporated. You goddamn did it again. Maybe you should die.

I think (I think) they noticed it.

Me, slipping right back into a Happy Shiny People mode: “Honestly, this stuff will look great on a resume.”

Him, a suppressed beam: “Oh, absolutely and —(white noise)

Me: A hard-to-define nod.

Him:

Me: “Well, I think I need to get back to work.”

Him: “Oh, and by the way, you can finish up until the end of the month. You’re more than welcome to stay around until then.”

Me: A smile and a nod: thank you.

I came back to my desk, opened my notebook, and wrote: THEY’RE NOT KEEPING ME. As I scribbled this message, I spoke about the law firm press release I’d just edited for appearances and slid the message to my trainer.

He looked at it and blinked. And blinked. And blinked.

Two weeks ago, when I asked him if they would keep me, he said, “Oh yeah. [Boss’s name] likes you and you’re doing great. You’re catching on quick. And honestly, they only hire interns if they plan to keep them.”

R_ didn’t know what to say. So I wrote: DON’T TELL ANYONE.

He looked up.

“I will be here until the end of the month.”

He gave an incline of the head, a I’m so fucking sorry nod. And then we continued talk about something else pertaining to the job. Something about tables.

#

I don’t share this story because I am angry at my job. In fact, I have nothing to say. If it is true that they don’t have the hours or a position open, then that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

IF that’s the reason.

The reason I’m telling you this is because I’m tired. Every time I think I’ve reached my goal, it get knocked back again. I think, When will I get a good enough job to own a place? When will I be away from parents? When will I find love? When will this depression stop? When my mind quit doing what it does? When will I stop being me? When, when, when…

So, of course, I come home at eight o’clock from my hour drive (because everything is an hour away), and I cocoon myself in my comforter in the pitch black. To be fair, I was doing this a week before the news of my internship hit. But now, I don’t want to get up, period. I shut my eyes, focus on the black abyss, and force my anxieties and paranoias to go away. I keep the floor fan on because it dilutes my thoughts.

If I lived alone, I would spend my entire weekends in bed. But… because I live with my parents, I can’t do that. So, I force myself into a daylight void of same ol’, same ol’. Otherwise, they’ll think something else is happening with me.

Song/Mood: “Golden Light” by STRFKR