This week has been a whirlwind of emotions, and I feel like writing about it is the only way that it’s going to feel even remotely better, so here goes…
I had my first job interview in six months, last week. It wasn’t for a particularly big or glamorous job, but I was still pretty excited. I spent the whole day before practicing how I would answer every possible question, and it paid off. The interview went well. I came out pumping my fists because I knew, just knew that they had to call me back for a second interview. And they did.
I want to take a detour here, and talk about a particular part of my application. It’s pretty standard for applications to ask about your availability, so I put mine: I will work any hours, any day, except for Sunday. Then, when they asked me about my availability in the first interview, I was honest again. As part of my religion, I don’t work on Sunday. It’s a day I choose to worship. I am religious. It was never something I wanted to hide.
So I was so excited when I went in for that second interview, with the manager this time. It went just as well as the first one. She had my resume, my references, and all of the notes from my prior interview. And she said that she had to do a background check and call some of my references, but that she wanted to hire me as long as I passed those. After six months of unemployment, I was finally going to have a job.
I celebrated. My husband celebrated. Obviously.
But then yesterday morning, I awoke to a phone call from said manager, saying that my application says I’m not available Sundays, and am I sure? Because Sunday is their second busiest day, and not working on Sunday would be a deal breaker…
I wanted to be sassy. Point out that it wasn’t a deal breaker when they called me in for the first interview, nor the second. Point out that I could work all day on their first busiest day.
I know working on Sunday isn’t a big deal to a lot of people, and it’s fine if other people choose to work then. But I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t. So I told her that no, I wouldn’t be able to, and she pointed out that there are plenty of other people willing to go to church and then come to work at another time of day.
Gee, thanks. But the answer was still no.
So that’s the story of how I got an awesome job working with books, and then I didn’t.
I don’t really know what is going to happen from here, and to be honest, I spent most of yesterday springing back and forth between moping and manically cleaning the apartment. But after a lot of talking with my husband, we did decide one thing.
Sitting at home and applying to so many jobs each week hasn’t been great for my mental health. At all. So I’m taking a break from it. I’ve joked before about how I’m a full-time writer because I don’t have any other day job. But yesterday while I was laying in bed contemplating making an entire bowl of brownie batter just so I could eat it like soup, my husband asked, “Why don’t you become a real, full-time writer?” And he meant it. And I didn’t know what to say, because I want that more than anything but I’m so scared and I’m not good enough and what about the money and there’s no guarantee anyone will ever want to buy my work and and and–
I’m lucky to have a guy who supports my dreams, who has so much faith in my abilities. He is always there to help me combat those negative voices in my head that sound like Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada and tell me I should just give up or worse, that maybe I already have. I’m lucky to have great friends like the WordNerds and all of the people who comment on my WattPad story and family and friends who let me be a nerd and taught me everything I know about living a life worth writing. They help me remember that those voices are wrong.
And that’s why I’m going to do it. Writing will now not only be my passion, but it will be my full-time job, and I will be a very part-time job-seeker.
It’s really terrifying. And sometimes it feels like I’m giving up, which is a really crappy feeling to have about yourself. And I don’t know what’s going to happen, and it gives me a decent amount of anxiety to know that my work won’t bring in any money for awhile. But I’m hopeful.
I hope this is for the best. I hope that this helps my mental health. I hope it helps my relationships and gives me back the confidence that I used to have so much more of. And there’s a small part of me– the vindictive part that I’m not necessarily proud of– that hopes that the people running that store know that they treated me wrong, and that they have lost a lifelong customer because of the way they treated me when I was a potential employee. It was their right to choose not to hire me because I won’t work Sundays, but it is my right to be treated fairly, to not be told that I had a job when I didn’t.
I hope someone understands just how crushing it is to feel like this, because it’s always nice to have a friend say that they get it. I hope I hope I hope.
I don’t know how many of you are the praying kind of people. But if you are, I could use as many prayers as you can spare. And no matter who you are, I would love to hear about your own stories of hope. Because I get it.