Today was my first official day at my new job. It's been four months since I received a paycheck for my labor. I actually got the check yesterday, which I blogged about. When I woke up, that Chumbawumba song that goes, "I get knocked down, but I get up again..."
At the time, I was like WTH?! And then I realized that it's the perfect song for today. I did get knocked down and get back up. I have had a few fantastic readings with Angela Boswell from Dream Angels in Jupiter, Fl. She uses these beautiful tarot cards and the falling Tower has come up in many positions and it was obvious to both of us that my life was falling apart. Not much intuition needed for that one!
I moved to Florida in November after two years of desperately wanting to move. It took me about a year to admit to anyone that I wanted to move and then another year + to find a job here. During that time, people kept asking if I would move without a job and I was horrified. NO! Of course, I would only move if I had a job.
Well, I got one. I moved. I got fired three months later.
It was kind of mutual because they were fucktards of the highest order and I couldn't believe I moved here for that ... but still I was left with no income, in a new place where I knew one person. Shit yeah! I got knocked down. And I was stunned, hurt, and scared shitless.
I think it took me three weeks just to get over the shock.
They walked me out!
They walked me OUT?
THEY walked ME out?!?!?
They walked me out.
I had to pack up my desk with no warning and in front of the whole office. My hands were shaking so bad I could hardly sign the agreement. They gave me no reason. No warning. And ensured me that no one would watch me clear out my desk...
which of course just made it so much worse.
Because they all knew. They had been told that I would be walked out that morning. It explained why they all looked through me ... as though I wasn't there. And why the woman who had stabbed me in the back to ensure that I was walked out left the office with some weird, twitchy explanation at 11am. (She was such a weird, twitchy one that I barely noticed.)
The guy who hired me looked at me as though I was a piece of shit on his shoe and said "[woman who stabbed me in the back] and I agree that we need to..."
There's more to this story, but that will be another blog.
Well, today, a wild confluence events had me driving through that parking lot again ... today ... on my first day of my new job. A job I was never sure I would get.
To summarize, I definitely wanted to deposit my first check ASAP and one of the only places I can do that is a credit union around the corner from the fucktards' office. Credits unions use this thing called "shared branching" when you move out of the vicinity of your credit union ... but it's only certain credit unions. Hence, the location of one of the only places I could deposit that check.
I'm still not sure how to describe how I felt when driving past the scene of my firing/layoff/whatever the hell that was. It wasn't quite the victory you'd think ... or I had always thought it would be. All I could think of was how eager I was to drive past and get on with the rest of my day.
Ironically, the most hurtful part of the day was that I posted to FaceBook that I woke up with that Chumbawumba song in my head and how perfect for my first day back and no one, not a single one of my friends liked it or commented or anything. Just like no one wished me Happy Birthday! on my birthday this past November just after I moved.
Angela explained that they are jealous because they believe my jokes. Talk about full circle.
They think because I joke about life, it's easy for me and it's not easy for me. And I must not even be grateful for it because I make jokes. Doesn't anyone know that if I didn't learn to make jokes and laugh through pain, I would have blown my brains out years ago? I'd be one of those women who have to be removed from their trailers with a crane.
I guess it's the price of being funny.
By the way, if you doubt my theory on joking your way through suicidal thoughts so that you don't actually kill yourself, listen to Paul Gilmartin's podcast.