I have been fortunate enough to receive a new nickname to add to my list; Chandler. Yes a couple of my new coworkers (well I’m an intern but give me a break, you’re about to see why) have decided that since I’m old (29, not that old) and an intern that my nickname is Chandler from “Friends” (except I don’t get to sleep with that Cougar). I of course laughed at the gesture and honestly didn’t mind the fun until I learned of my tasks for a couple weeks this summer; receptionist.
I totally understand that I’m starting from the bottom once again but this BMD will flare up and when it comes out it’s usually just to my parents, but why should they have all the fun (I’ll leave out the tears for you all though). Of course I’ll go along with the joke but there is a small piece inside of me that would like to let them know what I’m thinking.
“Never mind the fact that I, just a mere two years ago, was an up and coming talent on my way to the top of a company of 300K plus employees. Or that I’ve managed a $5 million annual module; which is a third of the total revenue this company brings in annually. I wasn’t driving an X5 (big body beamer) or approved for a $300K home loan. Just ignore the fact that I was overtaking the top performing module within my division in Silicon Valley which would have easily performed to the tune of a six figure income for me. I wasn’t looking at returning back to school at a little known university on the west coast; Stanford (maybe you’ve heard of it, or at least seen their tree mascot). No, no, I wanted to leave all of this behind to come and answer your phones, where’s the transfer button again (let’s get serious)?”
Of course I’d never say this but from time to time it would feel really good to. Don’t get me wrong I’m very proud of myself for getting this far. I mean in just those same two years I’ve been hospitalized twice (in a psych ward, that’s like double jeopardy or something), fought depression twice, was lucky enough to overcome suicidal thoughts and intentions, and have picked myself up off the ground more times than I’d like to count. But I can’t tell them any of this, not because I’m afraid that I’d lose any opportunity at a potential job (this is what I always thought before). But rather because I don’t need to.
I know for the longest time I cared entirely too much about what others thought of me (before and after my episodes). I was telling my parents how much of a tough time I’m having for some reason right now. Is it a combination of moving to a new city, starting a new career (well attempting at least), dealing with finding healthcare (practically impossible, thanks pre-existing condition), and not really giving myself time to recover (6 days after I got out of the hospital I was back in class, teacher’s pet)?
To be completely honest I don’t have the answer to any of this and no one does. I refuse to quit, I’m not sure where I’ll end up but I have to keep grinding (hoagies and grinders, hoagies and grinders) for me. If I stop caring then eventually no one will care; that’s the furthest thing I want.
Since many of my manic experiences involve music I’ve decided to add random music videos to the blog for my enjoyment and your inconvenience. Enjoy!
Coming Correct,
d01roK
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