I’m sitting here in my dark apartment waiting for the work computer to make the skype message notification sound or the outlook email notification sound. I am ‘working’ from home. I will not log these hours of waiting as work hours unless someone sends me a message asking for something. I am not looking to cheat these people. But, I am on my way out of that job. I worked there full-time for seven years, and then I had a meltdown. They said they would allow me to work from home. I took home a work computer. I still have not been paid. It’s being said that there were difficulties getting my contractor status set up…but…I am on my way out of that job. Hopefully I’ll at least get a check for the weeks that I’ve worked for them.
I’m moving to a new town within the next eight weeks or so. The lease here will be up. I may have a place lined up already. It depends if I get paid. I have money coming from a 401k cashout. There’s some kind of hold on that, and so I just kind of stuck. The work has dried up, and I’m not sure what to do with my time here.
Leaving my job has taken away some of the fake sense of identity that I had built up. I am right back where I started eight years ago when I first moved here to Florida. When I first moved to Florida, I did not have a job. I spent my time applying for jobs, temp jobs mostly, and I did a lot of leisurely things. I did some writing too – on my old blog. I rode my bike a lot…up and down 192 in Kissimmee. I drove around Florida, Atlantic coast to gulf coast. On days when I decided not to worry about job search stuff, I would sometimes drive to a beach. I would swim for a couple of hours and then go to the little beach town’s library. I would look at maps and other reference items in the library. I made long drives on those hot days. I first arrived in Florida in May, and I didn’t work until August. I had all of those glorious weeks – my ‘vacation.’ I don’t take regular vacations while working jobs full-time. Not really. My vacations are the periods of time between employers. I am a temp worker who usually manages to find full-time work, but only temporarily.
There’s not wisdom or moral to the story I’m telling here. I’m just typing stuff. It’s a nervous habit. It’s an urge that won’t go away for long. I have to write stuff like some people overeat or some people smoke (I smoke too…or…right now, I’m doing the vape thing).
Typing stuff is a good way to occupy the hands. It’s a good way to occupy this mind that won’t stop the worrying. It’s good therapy. Lots of people are saying it.
I was on the couch, thinking I’d be able to sleep. But the beginnings of this blog post started to occur to me, so here I am.
WordPress…I really should get more active and interactive on here. So far, I only type stuff and hit the ‘publish’ button. I don’t read other people’s stuff much. Sorry about that. I used to be on blogger, and I went through many active and interactive phases. But even there, there were times when I was only doing the one-way ‘communication’ …not really communication…just typing stuff. Blogs exist. I have had a few. I type stuff in them. I have the urge to write, so I do. This seems like the way to do it. I also have a paper and pen journal that I often neglect. At least with blogging – and I have believed this for a while now – that maybe somebody will read it and gain…something…from it. Maybe they will feel a sense that: They’re not the only one going through these things. Maybe I’ll accidentally, surreptitiously drop some fuzz of wisdom that might help somebody. It’s also exhibitionism. It’s also the tendency to follow the pattern that has been followed over and over before me. Nothing new here. Maybe I can repackage something in such a way that it will help.
The main point I started out wanting to make was: These periods of time between full-time jobs…while they’re stressful if you let your self be suscptible to the stress…they still can allow some of the bogus identity fall away. You have all this time with all your stuff. You just look around and see all your stuff. Soon I’ll be packing all this stuff to move. That is a major time of identity dissolution. When you look at all your stuff boxed up and sitting inside a moving truck…and you’re like, dam, that’s me? No. I’m the guy getting in the driver seat and driving away, but I’m not even him either. I’m just the eyeballs in that guy’s head…seeing the road to the new place. I’m not even the eyeballs either. I am part of the flow of traffic on i95 heading back towards the north. It’s easier lately to tell you what I am not than it is to tell you what I am.