Don't stop. Believing.

Aaaaand, we still haven't closed on the house. BUT the last thing I heard yesterday afternoon was that the massive shift of paperwork from lender to title company was well underway, and closure is expected this morning as soon as the title company has The Package in hand. Heh. Real estate is filthy. So keep wishing, chanting, crossing and whatever else it is you do. As a reward, as soon as the house closes, I will treat you to a long rambling post about the part of my childhood spent in that house. (Hint: It was the craziest saddest funniest part!) But in case my mother is reading my blog from the Great Beyond, don't worry - I'll make you look good. So, um, you don't have to do anything, um, supernatural-like to further delay this transaction. Athough, I have to hand it to you, the hurricane is a nice, poetic touch. Brava. (Edited to add: As of 1:26 p.m., The Package has not arrived yet. Tick tock. My options as I see them: - Start drinking now. - Start sleeping now. - Eat a plate of nachos the size and weight of my own head. - With a nice stiff drink. - And a nap. Sweet Jeebus. I know it seems awfully shallow to spend so much angst on a real estate deal. But, friends, you should understand that I need this sale to happen three weeks ago just to snatch subsistence from the bloodthirsty jaws of utter financial ruin.) BLOWING UP THE BUILDING WITH THE F-BOMB Once upon a time, and for a very long time, I had a real job. I was expected to show up more-or-less in the morning hours, and I stayed until a respectable quitting time. Sometimes, I stayed far past a respectable quitting time. I stayed until that time when you are so tired and taxed that you take a break to cry in the ladies' room. And you're not the only one in there. I wore grown-up shoes and grown-up clothes and I got my hair cut on a regular basis. There were some things I liked about it. The money. The rare occasions when a good idea actually came to fruition. The good friends I met. There was so much more that I hated about it. The money, which was abysmal. After I left, I discovered my pay - as a member of low-middle management - was less than the pay received by several people in positions I had held 5+ years earlier. And I was a real producer, too. I wasn't just skating by, cashing my checks and drinking free coffee in the break room. I also hated the fact that, more often than not, the mediocre ideas were the ones that came to fruition. Mediocrity was lauded and celebrated and felt up under the skirt, over the knickers. That's not a metaphor. But mostly, I hated the emotional terrorism. Have you ever worked (or, I guess, lived) with someone who wears you down like a sandblaster of negativity and criticism to the point where all your features are as vague as the Sphynx and all you can manage in that person's presence is a little defensive twitching? The most insideous talent possessed by people like that is that, after thumping you consistently enough on the forehead, they can stop. They can save their energy. They don't have to criticize your every move any more, because they've trained you to criticize yourself on their behalf. They can go about their days confident in the knowledge that, back at the office, everyone is simmering with a loathing that they can't help but turn on themselves. "I finished these TPS reports, but I'll bet it still won't be good enough for that fucking prick Oscar Goldman. God I hate that guy. I can just hear him now, 'Why are these reports so short? You should have put in more T and less P and S. And I thought we talked about you not wearing track suits to work any more...' I hate him. Why does he always do this to me? I should quit." See how remarkably efficient that method is? Oscar is off kissing ass at Rotary, while all his employees are cutting themselves at the knees. That's why it's emotional terrorism. The actual short-lived but unexpected assaults give way to the constant threat of further assault. And it is that threat which paralyses some people and prevents them from moving on. (I don't have first-hand knowledge of this, but I understand that this is also an effective and monstrous parenting technique, as well as a way to ensure miserable romantic relationships.) Maybe you've never been there. Maybe you've always been in a position where you could stand up for yourself, or stand up for someone else, or quit in the middle of your workday with a big ole smile. I haven't been that lucky. I had to get cancer before I could quit. And now, I am attempting to get another real job. And I keep wondering how I can protect myself from that terrorized environment. It's not like it's advertised. Like any good abuser, the person who leads like that comes on initially with a welcoming hand and an expansive heart. You might even get a little praise. It's only after you're enmeshed that the emotional terrorist convinces you that the praise wasn't quite earned, and that hand doesn't seem nearly so welcoming when you see the back of it arcing in your direction. I suppose you just have to be ready to walk out. Or at the very least, you have to be able to kick the terrorists out of your head and refuse to abuse yourself on their behalf.

Comments

[stepblog]

I worked for someone like that Bettie. Emotional terrorist is right. I used to feel like I was going to poop my pants for months after I left everytime I saw a slightly overweight woman with a blonde haircut that resembled the evil one. The worst part, which sounds like might have been the same for you, was that I was good at my job.I actually loved it and all the other people that worked there. But, she destroyed the place and I left before she completely destroyed me too.

The good part? She got fired about six months after I left, and the new bosses called and invited me to come back, with a promotion. I didn't go, but it felt good to be asked.

[Becky]

Amazing, you accurately described 2 people in my life.

My stepmother – purveyor of my monumental self-doubt, and whom I know never loved me, and terrorized me for the joy of it

My ex-boss – who had the incredible ability to pick apart my work in such a way that made me doubt my ability as a designer, and made me his design whore – he designed by telling me where to place every pixel, . – it was painful

You have remarkable insight into the human condition, that’s why I live your writing so much!

[Erin]

Funny, you don't look familiar, but I could swear we have the same boss.