From the ages of 18 to 26, I've had about 9 jobs. Only two lasted over a year. My first part-time job was at Target as a sales associate, which I abruptly abandoned in the middle of my shift, hardly having made 3 months. My boyfriend, at the time, messaged me that he had been thinking about breaking up with me. I struggled to breathe. I left Target feeling like some kind of failure with no real applicable skills other than punching numbers in a register and cleaning up after customers.
My boyfriend and I weren’t together for long, but he kept the thoughts of worthlessness at bay better than I could alone. I was ugly. I was unworthy of being loved. Compliments from my parents came with conditions. I was only pretty when I looked exactly how they wanted me to—dresses, heels, makeup, straightened hair. I could push through these thoughts if I knew I’d be able to see my boyfriend during the week. He gave me attention that I didn’t need to ask for. His affection turned my body from being something abhorrent into something tolerable. Hearing I love you fortified my sense of security and made me feel that I could be myself without judgment or fear. This was the beginning of an addiction for affection that inevitably fueled my depression for years to come. This made everything—including work—difficult to do.
After Target, I found part-time work at retail stores, a real estate agency, a call center, and two non-profit organizations geared towards helping families. Like my relationships, these jobs were also short and unfulfilling. My mind was constantly filled with negative thoughts. I feared failure, felt incompetent, and obsessively thought that everyone saw me as someone who wouldn’t amount to anything. People tried including me, but my awkwardness and low self-esteem wouldn't allow me to connect with anyone enough to feel comfortable even existing.
My first full-time job was with Rent-A-Center. I was twenty-four and had recently moved out of my parents’ house. I was renting a room in an apartment that I shared with two other individuals; buying my own groceries, cooking my own meals, and doing my own laundry. I had become independent and was finally making it on my own. The job was simple; picking up the phone and selling furniture and electronics. I liked my coworkers and figured this would be my ticket to getting my own apartment. I went through the trainings, befriended my coworkers to some degree, proudly wore my uniform, and biked my way to work.
When I decided to quit Rent-A-Center, I had left an impression that would most likely prevent the company from ever wanting me back again. I had started the process of getting help for myself; sought out therapy and began taking antidepressants. It was difficult to schedule sessions with my preferred therapist due to my full-time schedule and I didn't want to see anyone else at the time. Within an hour of my shift starting and having taken my antidepressant, I sat in a daze with a blank expression for a few minutes. The overwhelming feeling of hopelessness had beaten me again. I began tearing up and resigned moments later. I didn’t even last the 90 days. I hoped that therapy would make working full-time just a bit easier, but then I spilled over, literally and figuratively. It's like someone pouring you a cup of tea, but without fully paying attention. You watch them pour it and you see it getting closer to the brim, but you remain silent. Then when it overflows, all you're left with is the feeling of disappointment. Disappointment at yourself for not preventing the cup from overflowing.
I saw my bank account slowly depleting and I was racking up credit debt. I scrolled through hundreds of job postings on Indeed and thought to myself, I don’t meet any of these qualifications, so I didn’t apply to any of them. I returned to my part-time job that I knew couldn’t pay the rent, but it was and still is the only job I love. A few months later, I was forced to move back in with my parents. I originally moved out on bad terms and had to swallow my pride while internalizing my failure in order to move back home.
This feeling happened in my next full-time job and the one after that. My anxiety grew tremendously and I had absolutely no outlet. I felt trapped and alone. I never felt comfortable speaking with supervisors or any other higher ups for that matter. I felt that I was now spilling over every day. I needed to slow everything down for a moment. In my case, I brought my life to a screeching halt because the alternative just wasn't an option. I had a fight with my mother over something trivial, but it was my tipping point. I began packing up my belongings in garbage bags and placing them into my car. I made my way down to Chattanooga, Tennessee—814 miles away from everything I’ve ever known. A few weeks earlier, I had reconnected with an ex who was now currently living there, so I went to stay with him. Within the first two weeks, my depression enveloped my entire being and I could no longer stay with my ex. I felt physically and mentally abandoned. I could barely go to the mall by myself without having a panic attack before and after shopping for business attire. So I moved in with someone else....whom I met through Tinder. In my mind, the possibility of being murdered by a stranger was better than incessantly contemplating suicide every day when my ex left for work. I eventually formed a physical relationship with this person too. Though he never forced me to do anything, I needed to feel that I was worth something to this stranger for allowing me into his home, free of charge. He wasn’t after my body and, because of that, I felt rejected and abandoned again. After about a week, I could no longer stay there either.
I stayed in an Airbnb for roughly two weeks before being able to find my own apartment. Shortly after moving in, I received a call with a job offer for a full-time position. I figured this was my big break. A full-time job, my own apartment, my own car, I was making something of my life. I was going to put my optimism to use and my depression to rest. I lasted almost four months this time. I found myself crying myself to sleep some nights and shaking some mornings. I had spikes in anxiety whenever my supervisor called my name, whenever I had to go to court, whenever I had to go to a client’s home, whenever I entered the office, whenever there was a meeting, whenever there was a training, or even whenever my alarm went off to let me know it’s time to start the day. There were days where it felt as if I could only breathe while sleeping. I gave my two week notice, emptied out my savings to cover the fees for breaking my lease, and called my parents like the failure I saw myself to be, crying to come back home because I knew I would’ve died if I stayed. So I drove back. All 814 miles—13 hours—alone in my car.
As much as I wish I could say "fake it until you make it", it has been impossible for me to do. On my best days, I can hold a smile for a little over an hour, and even then, it's inauthenticity can be spotted a mile away.
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