Once upon a time, I was ‘stuck’ in Jersey with a ‘going nowhere’ job. I’d sell my my soul to have that life back, but hindsight is 20/20.

My Plan B to the ‘getting a job in DC’ meme was to work at said job through Feburary 2011, and then quit and just move to DC with no potential prospects.

If I’d done that, I’d have 6 months more of savings and perhaps would not have winded up in the perdicament of having the beast that is addiction creep up on me. I am only subscribing to the philosophy that everyting happens for a reason, because if I don’t I’ll get to angry at myself.

I would still give anything to have stuck to Plan B. But I didn’t. So now I’m back in DC, and it’s time to get a life. A life that is not just a job and a life that acknowledges but passes by the imperfections that make me, me.

I’m an anxious girl who bites her nails down to nothing. I fidget. I push my hair back behind my ears. I bite my lip.

Let’s make it clear: I fucked up. I’m a smart girl, capable of given the job(s) that were assigned to me. I didn’t (couldn’t?) do them.

My own head cases got in the way. For the record, it is not very intelligent to move to a new city, and start a new job (especially when a nagging voice in your head tells you not to take said job) and ignore that you still need all the avenues that got you healthy enough to even consider a job in a new city.

I spent a lot of time – a lot of wasted time – using defense mechanisms about Depression. I remember writing, years ago, one particularly intense (but never published) post about how I am NOT my Depression. Because at the time, I was such a mess, and I just wanted the guy I was stupidly involved with to realize that I was not C-R-A-Z-Y.

So here I am.

I wish I’d stuck with my old job in Jersey, but I didn’t so I have to get myself into the mindset (“take that word out in back and shoot it” -one of my favorite college professors) that this happened for a reason.

After nearly 6 weeks of being completely out of touch with the world, I’m back in DC. I’m okay. I’m better, even.

To clarify, I spent a week in a psych/detox ward and the rest of the time in an inpatient, all women’s rehab.

There is a lot I have to write about and a lot I want to say, but in the past few days I haven’t found a sufficient way to say it. So until then, I just wanted to say to the few still reading that I am okay, and for those I haven’t checked in with yet, you’re on my list.

I was still shaking and out of it last Friday when I met up with my two favorite-former-co-workers for lunch. After lunch (where I barely touched my food) I came back to the office to visit with random people I’d worked with.  It was awesome to see people. Are there words for how much I miss my old job? Probably not, and probably I’m wearing rose colored glasses, but I’d love to put an EBC binder together. At least I know I’m good at that. I’ve been told otherwise, but I think I’m fucking awful at my current job.

So, last Friday, my most favorite ex-coworker pulled me into the office she’d claimed for herself and told me to spill it.

“Sweetie, you’re shaking. And you look terrible. I’ve never seen you like this. Not when things were the worst here and not even when you first started and you were afraid of me.”

I sank down in the visitor’s chair and whispered a few things that were going on with me. She gave some feedback. She scolded. “Maybe DC is just not right for you?” she asked.

“Maybe.” Maybe. Maybe this move was a mistake. Maybe. I live under a flight path in DC, did I ever mention that? From my bedroom window, I can see the flights lining up to land. I don’t know why I find romanticism in this, but I do.

I’m the baby of the group of former co-workers. Intentional or not, they looked out for me, and still do. How did I get so lucky? The-Job-That-Was remains one of the best things that ever happened to me. When I say that job saved my life I’m not exaggerating. It gave me purpose, and it gave me confidence. I didn’t know I was so capable until my first week there my boss handed me a random spreadsheet, and unknown to me, expected just an easy Excel formula. I, thinking something much more complex was required, fussed around with it and figured out a way to automatically get updates on currency conversions. And then after that there was this big project with an outside law firm and I kicked ass, took names, and that’s why my status changed from temp to perm. My current job has not afforded me the opportunities to show I’m awesome. So. Shrug.

One week later, I’m out with current co-workers, and it’s practically a waste of my time. Oh, and also, Cute-IT-Boy is gay, head meet desk. Normally, my gaydar is quite good, but apparently when a Libertarian is involved it malfunctions. See also, extremely-cute-but-also-gay-libertarian boy from UChicago. Friday was a total failure. This guy referenced Milton Friedman! I totally swooned. Yes, it is probably fucked up that that is what gets me to swoon, but there it is. Arg. I had figured that he was gay because he is way to well dressed to not be, but he wasn’t pinging my gaydar. Not. Fair.

It’s around 6:40am. There is still the hum of airplanes overhead, and now there are stupid birds starting to chirp.

I miss New Jersey and my old job. I don’t want to go home, I want to stick it out here. But I don’t know if I can. I am so freaking emo.

Seven years ago, I walked out on a life I had no right to walk out on. Every year on this day, I think about it, although the memory has gotten blurry. Today’s his birthday too, because yes, I am the bitch who broke up with my boyfriend of 4+ years, on his birthday.

I almost never think about him. Even though we forged that bizarre and inappropriate friendship for awhile four year ago. Even though we now live in the same city (as far as I know) and I could run into him because DC is a tiny place.

Once upon a time, I did love The Ex more than I’ve ever loved anyone. And so it’s weird to simply not care. I don’t hate him, at all, even though I suspect he hates me, if that. In reality, it is more likely that he never thinks about me and that he’s indifferent to me. And that’s okay too. Because what am I going to do about it? This is when I shrug and toss my hair over my shoulders. As far as I know, he still has the same girlfriend and he’s happy with her, and you know what? That’s okay with me. He should be happy.

But still, seven years. Where the hell does time go? Where the hell did my life go? In those seven years I have lived like a rock star in NYC, been a grad student at University of freaking Chicago, lived in NYC again, lived in NJ and now, wound up in DC. I am by no means the same person I was seven years ago when I walked out of that apartment and drove back to Saratoga Springs.

The girl who managed to do that was brave. I am not.

.

I know every back road in Bergen County. I know more trivia than you. I hate my hair, but I wear it long just because.

Because my best friend has driven me all over Bergen County, is the only person who can beat me in Trivial Pursuit, and is the only person who will tell me I look awful with short hair. (Other people would always tell me it was cute. In retrospect, it totally wasn’t.)

When I’m with Brent, I never ever have to explain myself.

He is my best friend, the most trusted person in my life, and my first call.He knows me better than anyone in the world. He can discern my state of mind from a sentence that’s completely unrelated to anything I’m feeling. We speak to each other in a language that other people don’t understand.

He is the person in my life who never lets me down, even though I’ve let him down. He is my BEST friend, when I probably don’t deserve it. From hundreds of miles away, he still (along with Joe, who is thousands of miles away) just takes care of me. Like, oh, Rachel is having a rough time right now, lets make sure she’s okay. He watches out for me, and neither of us would admit it.

So while I’m here, in this strange city where I know almost no one, at the end of the day I come home and talk to him. Because what else would I do? He makes me laugh about dumb things that I can’t even begin to explain to you and he understands my sadness even when I don’t. When I go home over President’s Day weekend, we’ll go to a random diner one night and we’ll talk about things, and really, there is no need to talk about these things because he already knows all the words I’m going to vent.

With some friends, like Michael, I’m tactile and we hug a lot. With some, I’m more openly affectionate (Jill-IAN and I exchange ‘I love you’s all the freaking time when we’re together). Brent and I have hugged maybe a dozen times. We’ve said “I love you” maybe half of that. But there is no one else on the planet who can finish the sentences I haven’t even started.

It’s nearly 9am and I am on my couch, making myself purposefully late for work since I was there until 9PM last night.

There are no words for how much I miss my old job. And also, I know it’s not as bad as it could be. It could be The-Job-That-Wasn’t, and then it would be REALLY bad. But I miss my old job, and it’s been 5 months now, so I should just get the hell over it and push forward.

But I do miss my old job. And coworkers. And bosses.

DC is lonely, that’s what it is. And since I’m all career driven and over achiever, I tend to find satisfaction in a job. So while that isn’t happening, I’m not sure what to do. I fix computers and flirt with cute IT boys and I have no idea how that became the extent of my ‘career’. Not that my old job was hurtling towards anything real either, but I can only think of two occasions in two years where my last job made me cry. Yeah, I’m pretty sure my boss knew I cried which is spectacularly unprofessional, but whatever.Me and my constantly messed up hair are never ever going to be the picture of professional. Anyway, the point is that that’s a pretty good track record. Last week, I closed my office door and cried 3 times in one day. Maybe I should just learn to cry less, but yeah, there were things bringing me to tears.

And I should go to work now.

Do you know what’s weird? Watching Season 1 of Dawson’s Creek. I was a freshman in high school when Joey was hopelessly crushing on Dawson. While I  later wised up and came around to Pacey > Dawson, this was still Season 1 and so I watch these episodes, and it makes so much sense.

I get her crush, I get the torture, and even though if we’re speaking canon,  I now hate Dawson, I swoon, somewhat, over every little bit of ‘this may turn into something.’ Because I, like many 15 year olds, once upon a time, lived it. A lot of us did.

Dawson’s Creek was fraught with overwrought dialogue, but I loved it, because in the early days (before Pacey got into Boiler Room tactics, before Dawson actually got to Hollywood, before Joey Potter developed The It) it was painfully realistic. Any anyone my age who says otherwise is lying

Actually, I have no clue why. It started with a couple songs from Cold Spring Harbor in my head. (For the record “You Look So Good To Me.”) And now I’m okay with the entire collection being back on my iPod. “Everybody Has a Dream” was declared the soundtrack of my life for a week or so.

After more than two years, I can listen to Billy Joel again. And I really, really do not know why.

To, you all

If you’re reading this, you’re either blog-stalking me, or you’re on my short list of “People I Actually Care About.” And if it’s the latter, keep reading for a minute, because. Because I said so, and I’m bossy. 

You are incredible people. You have to know that. You have made me smile on some of my worst days. You have brought me to tears simply because you are awesome, and you let me see that. Really, you have no idea how much better my life is, because of you. I am thankful every single day, because you are in my life. You have humbled me, and given me faith in humanity with your support. I’m a drunk, and I’m a mess, and I’m a drama queen but not one of you has turned your back on me. Every single one of you has asked what you could do. Without any qualms, you have been there for me. You have responded to my emails, taken my phone calls, and once, when I lamented that 13 days was so little time, one of you told me “That’s well over 300 hours, and if you count them all up individually, that’s quite a lot.” This factoid, btw, was reported to me by someone I’ve never met in real life. You have all made it impossible for me to doubt that people care about me. ”If drama were an Olympic Sport, you’d win a gold medal,” one of you lovingly told me a few years ago. And that’s true enough. Again, I am a mess. I don’t even cry pretty. And yet, you are all still here. Which basically means you are the coolest people on the planet, and I have no idea what I did to deserve you in my life.

  Because of you, there are days that I walk around with a confidence I didn’t know I possessed. Because of you, I still remember how to tilt my chin and raise my eyebrows. Because of you, no matter how bad things get, I am going to beat this, damnit. Because of you, I laugh at the craziest of things. Because of you, there’s this random song that I never would have liked, but when I hear it, I think about you, and I smile. Because of you, I know without a doubt there is someone in my corner. Because of you, I got myself a job in DC.  Because of you, I believe that 2011 is going to be good.

I love you all, a whole lot, and I want all of you to have nothing but the best in the New Year.

-All the best,

Rachel

Leo, To Josh: This guy’s walking down a street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep, he can’t get out. A doctor passes by, and the guy shouts up, “Hey you, can you help me out?” The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a priest comes along, and the guy shouts up “Father, I’m down in this hole, can you help me out?” The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on. Then a friend walks by. “Hey Joe, it’s me, can you help me out?” And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, “Are you stupid? Now we’re both down here.” The friend says, “Yeah, but I’ve been down here before, and I know the way out.”

-The West Wing (Noel)

My iPod hit “Long December” at some point on the drive down on Sunday.

Long December, and there’s reason to believe/Maybe this year will be better than the last.

December truly has been the longest month. It’s been pretty brutal since Thanksgiving and not-so-hot since I moved down here.

But then, 2010 hasn’t been a bad year. In fact, the first 9 months should mark it as one of the better years. There is no doubt my rose colored glasses are in full force, but I don’t think I’m being delusional. Despite my existential angst about wanting something “more” I was happy, in my own twisted way. I loved my old job, for what it was. I had my best friends a 2 minute drive away. I was safe.

I don’t want to dwell anymore on what I left behind to come down here. In some ways, its similar to how I left my incredible life in NYC for University of Chicago. I didn’t do it for happiness, I did it because it was the Right Thing. I didn’t take advantage of any of the opportunities that year at UChicago afforded me (mainly because I was busy being a drunk) and I still regret it.

I don’t want to do the same thing here. I live in Washington DC. There are one hundred things to do if I’d just widen my range beyond the path between the bus and my office. I can straighten my hair, wear prettier clothes, and maybe learn to walk in heels.

All of this speaks to my desire to be Rebecca, and not Rachel. Although speaking about an alter-ego in a blog post does not exactly help with the sanity front.

I cannot believe that I have done this seven times, and yet, here it is. I’m too old to be doing something like this, probably, but I can’t NOT at this point, after so many years of completing this stupid survey.

2009
2008
2007
2006
2005
2004

It’s hard to accurately speak of this year, when the past four months are such a stark contrast to the first eight. I spent much of this year complaining of career angst (“I’m never going to be anything other than a glorified secretary”) and figuring out a way to get to DC. Well, I figured out a way to get to DC, and I miss my glorified secretary job a whole lot, and every single bit of DC has been a struggle. Does four months cancel out eight months? Because for eight months, I was all angsty about my career, but I was happy.

Regardless. I will say this: 2010 was quite a year.

Read the rest of this entry »

I’ve been trying to write something all day, but seriously, this is what it comes down to:

I really wish I could quit my job and move back home. That’s not a realistic solution, and I know it sounds incredibly dramatic, but I just want to go home.

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1) The Nickleback (apparently one of the most hated bands ever?) song “Gotta Be Somebody” is on my iPod. I was singing along to it in my car this morning.

2) I’ve channeled Mandy Moore in Chasing Liberty, and danced around my living room to “American Girl.”

3) I get a little teary from the Taylor Swift song “The Best Day” for several reasons.

4) Watching vintage 90210 makes me feel really old  Also, best line in the entire series “I hate you both! Never talk to me again!” (because, hm, my best friend hooked up with my boyfriend behind my back, maybe I don’t WANT to forgive them. Brenda is awesome).

5) Speed is on. I’ve seen this movie 19,000 times. Keanu Reeves was my first actor-crush, solely because of this movie. I also have a fondness for Sandra Bullock as a result of this movie.

.

Lest any of you think that this means I will continue to take myself entirely too seriously at all times, I make jokes about my alcoholism on a regular basis. Lucky for me, I also know a lot of very witty, funny people who make me laugh about this issue. Initially everyone is afraid to joke about it, because what kind of jerk makes fun of an alcoholic? It’s funny – the guys I’m friends with, insulting each other is part of our currency, but when it comes to Rachel’s drinking problem, they initially treated me as if I were made of glass.

Brent asked me today where the line was drawn and honestly? Anything goes. There’s a chance you might upset me, but given that drunk me is a total handful, I probably owe you one.  Alcoholism is also useful for Godwinning discussions (Bet you $10 I’m the most screwed up person in the room!). Brent, Joe, and Jon took me out to Trivia Night to celebrate my one year of sobriety in March. The prize was a cooler and a case of beer. Hilarious.

Smirnoff vodka has been my drug of choice for as long as I’ve been drinking. Brent has always been into fancy scotches and such, even when we were younger. Once, we were at a liquor store and I was annoyed with him for taking so long to make his choice. “I choose my liquor like I choose my friends,” he told me. “I am very discerning and I choose only the best.” And then he sneered at me “You choose your liquor like your choose your men. You pick something awful, and stick it to.” (Guilty).

Switching topics, slightly, since I’ve gotten questions about it: I’ve always thought about writing about the experience of being a 20-something alcoholic, and in turn, why I think AA isn’t my thing. To get standard disclaimers out of the way, I recognize that it has worked for many people. I attended my first AA meeting in April of 2008. Pretty much the last place I ever thought that I would wind up. Smart, good Jewish girls like me don’t become alcoholics.

There are two main reasons why AA was not, and will not be a large part of the solution for me. Despite its claims to be spiritual rather than religious, I have universally found it to have a strong Christian bend.

Second: there’s no laughing in AA. Alcoholism is Serious. The times I tried to bring the sarcasm or my glib sense of humor were met with awkward silence. Alcoholism IS serious, and the whole situation is pretty fucking miserable. But if I can’t laugh about this? Then there really is no fucking point.

I also seem to be swearing a fair bit more than usual, which really is not becomming to a woman of my education but then again, neither is the whole alcoholism thing, so fuck any sense of propriety.

First of all – thanks for the comments, the email, the facebook messages – hell, even for “liking” the link I have now cowardly pulled from my status on facebook.

Second – there was no courage involved in posting what I posted –  this is a pretty cowardly medium for confessing something incredibly personal.  I throw this into the universe because I need to hear back on it. Being an alcoholic is lonely business, and the ordinary means of addressing this problem (say, AA) aren’t neccesarily the best solutions for me. What got — and kept — me sober were my relationships with people, not with AA.  And so I tell the internet.

If you’re reading this, then  I probably wanted to tell you about this before. Alcoholism is an isolating condition. When you are a relatively intelligent, average, quiet girl, no one looks twice at you. I think some of you have heard me say that my friend David (also originally an internet friend) saved my life and you know how he did that? He believed me when I whispered that I thought I may have a drinking problem. No one else had believed me before. I was too smart and too together (ha!), there was no way I could possibly have a problem – just had to cut back, just had to learn moderation, just had to only drink on weekends.

Drinking is a choice, except it’s not. I am a libertarian, someone who believes in the power of reason, and who has read Atlas Shrugged all the way through no less than 5 times. Oh, and I’m a control freak in general and a tiny bit neurotic. But I have no power when it comes to this. That’s why it’s so scary. You numb yourself with vodka and you keep yourself from noticing how incredibly fucked up things are, but you occasionally sober up just enough to realize what a grand mess you’re making of everything, and yet you CAN’T STOP.

It all builds up and everything feels insurmountable. And me, being new to this city, have quickly isolated myself. So I’m scared, because I really don’t know if I can do this. And I’m angry at myself, because how did I let this happen, and how did I let this happen so fast?

“Pick up the pieces,” David tells me. “You can do it, you just have to learn all over again.”

And so I’m writing about this on the internet because alcoholics are insecure and scared. I don’t really want you to know this stuff about me. I like to pretend that I’ve got it together. I use my sarcasm to deflect all. I will rarely ask for anything. Part of me is cringing that I’m even writing a post like this at all, because it’s against my nature to be completely sincere.

But I don’t know what else to do. So I’m just going to hit post, because why don’t put another incredibly personal and revealing entry on the internet?

My name is Rachel (and as my blog title suggests, certainly not Rebecca).I’m average. I could afford to lose 5 pounds. Ok, 10 pounds. I’m smart (that’s my identity) and constantly sarcastic.

My name is Rachel and I am an alcoholic. I am 27 years old, verging on “professional”, a “good girl” (until I got that DUI) and I am, without a doubt an alcoholic.

You would probably not guess this about me, but once you know it – once you know I’m an alcoholic, and if you’re open-minded enough to sit with that knowledge for a second and accept me as such –  everything else probably adds up. I went to University of Chicago (the snobby, prestigious school) but I did not make one connection. I drifted back to Jersey for unspecified reasons, and stayed. I couldn’t drive for 8 months. (If my ex-boss is reading this: you have no idea how grateful I am for your lack of questions)

My name is Rachel and I am an alcoholic, who has screwed up her own life multiple times. You would not believe how much I screwed up from the tiny to the life altering. The-Job-That-Wasn’t would have been a disaster no matter what, but I bet I could have handled it were I not a drunk. I got fired from a job. Me, the girl who never got a detention in high school.

I don’t remember most nights from late 2006 to late 2008. I know most of you are reading this and thinking that you’ve had your share of nights where you had too much to drink and you don’t quite remember and what’s the big deal?

Trust me. It’s not like that. When you blackout, you don’t remember. There is nothing in the world that can jolt your memory. You do not want examples of things I have said or done while blacked out (things I only know about by other’s accounts) but it is wretched. Further, the number of times, when I took the subway from Brooklyn to Queens and then walked home, all in a black out means I really should be dead right now. There is no reason in the world why I shouldn’t have been a statistic. I am also fortunate that, despite my terrible taste in men, I have never encountered any sort of violence. Sure, I’ve dated jerks (ick) and many of them have witnessed my not-so-fine behavior as an alcoholic, but none of them have physically hurt me.

My name is Rachel and I am an alcoholic. About two months ago, I moved out of my parents house, where I had been safely ensconced for two years. After I got my DUI, I wised the hell up. I sobered up, literally and figuratively. I got better. My relationships with everyone in my life improved. It was the most amazing experience of my life. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done and the simplest.

Now I’m thinking that supervision is what kept me walking the straight and narrow (without wobbling). I live in DC now, and good lord, I am a mess. I can’t get it together. I can’t be happy. I can’t stay sober.

My name is Rachel, and I’m an alcoholic.

I’ve finally confessed, to my close friends (Joe. Brent. David) what is going on here. They’ve all said the same thing: Stop. (Because you can do this. You did this. Do it now.) I love them all dearly for understanding that “stop” is as ridiculously easy and as terrifyingly difficult as that.

And that’s why I haven’t written, and haven’t commented, and haven’t tweeted, and really, haven’t done much of anything in DC.

I would like to say that I’m okay, or that I’m going to be okay, but I really don’t know yet. I just thought maybe I’d post this here. (And will probably wind up deleting it) because this is me. My name is Rachel (not Rebecca) and I am an alcoholic and I know you don’t understand (nor do I expect you to) but it is TERRIFYING.

I sometimes, often always forget, that when I first moved to New York, I struggled. Not this much, because work then came with a built-in social circle, so there were frequent happy hours and random outings. (I would love it if I were in better touch with the PLI people, but also recognize that much of it was bonding by circumstance. Still, I will always remember those 16 months as some of the happiest of my life) But I struggled. As an introvert, the process of commuting and spending the day surrounded and commuting home was exhausting. I certainly wasn’t “taking advantage of all the city had to offer.”

Things improved immensely when I moved from Jersey City to Astoria. A huge part of it was Astoria itself and everything that came with it, but I’d like to think (hope) that some of it just came because it came with time.

I have lived in DC for exactly a month. I have not been anywhere that is not between my apartment and work (other than a few Target runs.) Sure, I’ve gone grocery shopping and walked to Wisconsin Avenue to hang out with one of Keithers friends, but for the most part, I’ve been on my own. I am definitely not taking advantage of all the reasons I moved to DC. Part of this has been because of the demands of my job, but part of it is just Me. I feel like I can’t, or I don’t feel like it, and so I don’t.

I miss New York, a place I haven’t lived in years. I wish New York could be right.

I know I need to start trying, and it really is just as simple and impossible as that, and this is no time to wallow or feel sorry for myself. Believe me, I know all that.

But last night, exactly a month to the day since I left my last job, I was sitting there in tears, thinking how it had been a mistake. The thing is, is that even if it was, there’s nothing that can be done about it now. I’m here. I’ve been replaced. I love my ex-coworkers dearly, but having left like this once before (again, PLI for grad school) I know that once the initial phrase passes, it’s easy to forget. Such as it is, and all, but I know I will miss far longer than I am missed. Which is how it goes.

The only thing to do right now is to claim that this month was a grace period. A trial phrase. And claim that tomorrow is when it begins For Real.

It’d odd how disconnected I’ve become since moving to DC. The office construction nonsense my job means I don’t spend most of the day behind a computer. I’m on my feet as much as I was when I was a barista. I don’t check my Facebook or twitter feed and by the time I sign on at night everything is already old news. I don’t think I’ve read more than one or two blog entries since I moved here. Which is a shame, because I missed out of hearing of Charlotte’s transit strike experience, and it would have reminded me of my transit strike experience, and I had no idea Kim had a birthday.

Instead, I’ve been doing my share of wallowing and more than my fair share of manual labor. Oh, and hooking up computers. Oh, how I have hooked up computers and unhooked up computers and fixed things in the server room and I have no idea what I’m doing. I can probably fix your computer now when it does seemingly inexplicable things. I take back every bad thing I ever said about any IT person.

This is the week I have decided that enough wallowing, I am going to suck it up, and I am going to be GOOD at my job while I have it. I am going to act like I did at The-Job-That-Was when I first started, and put in the extra hours when I need to and I’m going to do it cheerfully, because I am grateful for this job, right? This job got me to DC, and I have to grateful for that. Corollary to that, is that I have to start enjoying DC. I have to start going out and doing things. (This is hindered by the manual labor aspects of my job. I’m all sweaty and icky after work)

And then, as I was absolutely dripping with sweat and trying to manuever heavy boxes into a cramped space, one of the Senior Policy Analysts walks by me and says “So this is what you do with a Masters from the University of Chicago?” (a question I have been asking myself as me and this one other girl with an MA degree do everything from moving computers to emptying huge bins of recycling). But anyway, it was just the timing of the comment, but it hit be hard. And I have mentioned before, if I am going to cry, I am going to cry, and there’s absolutely no trick that will stop that. Thank god I was, you know, trying to get stuff into a storage room, because I was able to duck behind a row of boxes, and cry very, very quietly for about 15 seconds. Another 90 seconds or so to regain my composure (while chanting in my head “there’s no crying in baseball. there’s no crying in baseball.”)

I’m okay now, and I’m sloooowly working myself back into “I am going to be awesome at my job, whatever it is.” But still, I’ve spent the last seven hours sweating, and it’s also still 90 degrees, and we still don’t have living room or dining room furniture in the apartment, and I have to figure out a time for my parents to visit and I haven’t gotten to wear any of my pretty DC clothes and I haven’t seen any of the people I know in DC, and I know any change in this situation (other than the weather) absolutely has to come from me. I know I just have to keep a good attitude about my job, for whatever it is right now, stay sane, and the rest will follow.

I’m just not sure how to BRING that attitude in the first place, when academics mutter not nice things under their breath or when people ask me for things I have no idea how to do (because I’ve been here for two weeks and have had no “normal” training due to this office construction nonsense) and then look at me like I’m the stupidest person in the world because I can’t fix their problem, or when there’s ten million things going on at once and it’s like I’m back at The-Job-That-Wasn’t, or when I make a mildly sarcastic or light-hearted comment because yes, this office construction IS inconvenient but there’s nothing we can do about it, so why not laugh about it and I get a withering look. I don’t know how to keep my sense of humor and keep the confidence I know I need to maintain to merely survive this situation.

The first rule, I suppose is to never, ever let any of them see me cry.