Has it really been four days since I last blogged?
I swear I keep telling myself I’ll find some time to write, but between a full-time job, therapy, taking care of a toddler, and socializing, it seems blogging daily is a far more difficult task than I anticipated. But I have half an hour before work starts again, so I’m hunkering down on this snowy Sunday afternoon while my toddler plays with my hair and treat my living room as his own jungle
I took Friday, November 7, off, but my co-worker—well, I consider her more a friend now than a co-worker—was drowning and stressed. So I jumped in and ended up working almost a full day, from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m. I told myself I wouldn’t overwork and burn out again, which I can sometimes feel rapidly creeping in. But my friend was on the verge of a breakdown—I could tell even through messages on Teams—and I felt so bad for her because she reminded me of how I used to feel back when I worked for “the big company.” I would work from 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., take the train home, and sob uncontrollably in the bathtub while my boyfriend at the time—sat silently beside me, stroking my back, not knowing what to do.
I remember that day vividly. I got off the subway and met my co-workers at our stop. It was my first month at the job, and though I was anxious about coming in early—knowing I still had a bunch of tasks from the day before waiting for me on top of everything due today—I tried to play it cool. We grabbed coffee and joked about how stressful it all was, how much we didn’t give a fuck (though I very much did at the time; I was still on probation and the union didn’t provide the same protection it did for the old-timers). I rolled in right at 8 a.m., only to find out at the elevator that everyone had to work at the other office—on the other side of the city—because the main office was down.
My heart was pounding. I tried to smile on the subway ride there, tried to join in the jokes, but I couldn’t. Now not only was I not early, I was horribly late. And though this didn’t count as tardy, I knew every minute spent not working meant another minute staying late.
And I was right. The whole day was a blur of catching up on emails, dodging calls from nurses and PSWs demanding updates, and getting reprimanded by my supervisor for missing or not following up on things.
Later, I was called into a conference room—because despite how much I felt I was drowning, my manager somehow thought I was doing a decent enough job to choose me, along with another employee—a doctor from India working while revalidating his credentials—for a side project. At one point, he noticed my trembling hands and panicked breathing as we waited for our manager to arrive.
He reached across the table and steadied my hand. Usually, touch from strangers discomforts me, but something in his gentle, nurturing presence broke through that wall. His eyebrows furrowed with concern as he said, “It’s going to get better. It’s not always going to be like this.”
At another time, a black woman, one I started at the same time with, made a point of telling me, while we ate lunch, that: “You are not a slave. Don’t let them think they can pay you enough to become one.”
I wish I could tell you that I took her advice seriously and stopped overworking myself right at that moment, that I was able to grasp the gravity and history of her words. But at the time, I already knew she wasn’t going to make it past probation, and that I was, because I did overtime on the daily, came in while it was still dark and did not leave until it was dark. Because I did everything they asked and did not complain, even when it was destroying a part of myself, even when I did not write the whole time I worked there, because I simply had no energy for anything else, let alone something that could nurture me.
At the end of that horrid day, I pulled myself away from my cubicle and emerged in a completely different environment that I entered 12 hours ago. Everyone from the morning was gone – the shifts have rotated and I was now among the After-Hours department. Everybody looked unfamiliar but also the same. They did not question my presence. One by one, as I made my way through the endless maze of cubicles, necks and faces strapped to wired headsets glanced and then turned away, as if I had passed some kind of test, that now they knew and understood I was a “serious person”, a long-timer, and that from this moment on they would treat my clients and employees with care, because I was watching, because I stayed, because I knew what happened in my department and did not let things slip.
I stayed three years at that company, and had two mental breakdowns. I learned the rhythm, finished early some days, even got noticed. My supervisor pulled me aside one day and said, “You know the Vice-President knows you by name? That’s a good thing!” I blushed, as if a celebrity—or the Dalai Lama—had just complimented me.
I started thinking I was making a difference. That I was part of the company’s great work. Then it was summer and the company rented a yacht to cruise Lake Ontario and the drinks were free and soon my co-workers got drunk and gyrated to Caribbean music on the lower deck, which is a thing to behold when the ladies are wearing heels and the men are sloshed and everyone’s on a boat – like watching the Titanic sink on its side except everyone’s pretending they can still stand upright – I was sober and still found maintaining balance on snakeskin heels a challenge – so I excused myself from the dancing and held on to the rails for dear life as I climbed up the stairs to the upper deck – where I found a little corner to look at the stars and saw the Toronto Islands on the edge of the horizon, and as I was enjoying this view, the Vice-President sidled up next to me and started talking about how he once went to a U2 concert back in the day (I don’t remember why he brought this up) and slipped his hand on my waist as if it was the most natural thing in the world and finally, finally the grip the company had on me broke, and I never stayed past my allotted time again.
for #NanoPoblano2025
NanoPoblano is the world’s least official November blog challenge. Participants and supporters are called Cheer Peppers. The BIG goal is 30 posts in 30 days. You can share your goal and your progress and your posts on the Facebook group at: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1336744293025187/
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