Salt in My Wounds

Apparently when it rains it really does motherfucking pour.

This is not the post I had planned for today. This is not the day I had planned for today.

I had planned for this to be my first day back at work after being out for a week with panic attacks. I had planned for people to ask me how I am doing, for a few hugs from my friends at work; I had planned for women to comment on my skinny wrists and collarbones, for the gay guys at work to compliment me on how my jeans fit.

I did not, however, plan on being laid off.

But that is what the day gave me and I am vacillating between feeling absolute shock, relief, terror, depression and an absurd out of body this-can't-be-my-life what-the-fuck why-me?

I was promoted to Director 10 months ago.

Let's get one thing straight: I hated my job. There: I've said it. I couldn't say it before because people from my work ex-work read this blog. And while there are some people there that I adore there are also a bunch of absolute assholes that make my skin crawl. I wanted out but I wanted out on my own terms. And I wanted out with a secure source of income.

Hell, I'm pretty much naked emotionally right now so let's just get down to it. I want to be a writer. Saying that feels a little bit like saying I want to be a ballerina or a princess or the cruise ship director on The Love Boat: stupid. But I do. I want to write. Problem is I need income and everything I know about writers is corduroys worn thin and stubbing out your cigarette and saving the butt to smoke the rest later. I like Starbucks Chai Lattes and Anthropologie. I don't smoke. And I don't have a clue where to start.

What I do know is this: I have been unemployed now for 4 hours. I am going to go meet some friends for a drink and try to swim my way into sense. And somehow someway somewhere something will happen and that will be my new reality.

For now, I answer to no one.