April 2015’s Blogging A to Z:
Brian might have a job in Minnesota soon. (oh shit. yeah, I need to update y’all about that. my bad.) so I was thinking about the different job opportunities I could seek out up there. I’ve a diverse career and volunteer history (in no particular order): photographer, office assistant manager, comic artist, product suppliers manager for a expos, book seller, photographer, interviewer, customer service manager, security guard, general retail/sales, photography studio manager, heliport assistant manager, volunteer coordinator for expos, canoe instructor, writer, equipment specialist and manager, librarian, etc. some of these were concurrent, some were not. some were for a summer, some many years. but I have enough experience in each of them to get another job in the same position or at least similar field.
so then I was thinking about things I couldn’t do. immediately I went to anything involving balance or memory, and food is also a no-go. so of course, that meant “no way” for the restaurant industry. in fact, I really couldn’t make it there. either A] I couldn’t dress the part to work in a nicer restaurant; or B] I couldn’t dress the part to work in a lower-class burger joint (think Twin Peaks or Hooters or something). why not the latter? because of my scars.
I’ve written a lot in my LiveJournal/DreamWidth about my self-injury — cutting, hair-pulling, burning, scratching, biting, bruising, head bashing, starving, over-dosing, etc. I try not to go into it too much here, as my being too open about my cutting is what ended up in an unnecessary hospital trip that cost me over $4000 of non-insured expenses (which I actually finally just paid all of off in 2014!).
but as they are a part of who I am, both past and present — and honestly, probably still in the future –, I can’t just ignore it all.
I’m a cutter. I’m a self-harmer. not was; am. the scars haven’t stopped. they continue.
they’ve diminished in quantity and frequency; but they make up for it in quality and frightfulness.
I started wearing what I call my “scar tape” again. there’s a ton of gels and tapes and screams that help. but I have my favourite. though now it’s old and hard to find, and my not even be effective anymore. but I’m wearing that again.
but because of these damn things, I can’t even get a job as a waitress. in the past, I hid my cutting. only inner thighs and breasts. but these days, I don’t think I even care anymore. since November, new ones have been added. and they’re on stomach. right across it. so the Twin Peaks belly-revealing uniforms are out. and the Hooters short skirts? they’d definitely show off too many.
it’s funny how my drinking limits my mobility for a job, my anxiety limits my socialness, my self-injury limits my outfits, and my nerves limits my dexterity.
I need a job where I don’t have to have any certain appearance, am not expected to go anywhere to distant, and don’t have to have patience or proper mobility.
can I, like, apply to be a log or something?