2002-08-21 - 1:51 a.m.
Sifting through reactions; darkness, and a smile.

I feel so fragile, and I don't know why. Well, I do. I just resent that I'm built that way, that a little stress here and a little stress there, combined with not enough interpersonal contact and more fear than motivation to correct that, has turned my defenses to spun sugar and locked me silent in my chair again. Not emailing, not calling, resenting even the family events I have to attend this week (cousin's birthday, brother's party, weekend family reunion).

There's been a praise-Shell touch or two, here and there, from my boss the last couple of days. Tiny ones. Combined, of course, with a marrow-melting commentary about my newspaper-reading tendencies. Seems that (just like at my last job) people at this company don't talk to each other about concerns without making a wide detour through the supervisory loop, even after we're made to sit through "Academy" classes discussing the fundamental principles of communication we're expected to abide by ...

... So. Someone noticed me reading the newspaper. On break, mind you; I have a clock. I watch it. Others get smoke breaks; I take mental downtime at my desk. I don't take breaks at regimented times, but I thought I'd left that fucked-up attitude behind with the culture at my old job -- so many older men, used to routines and types of work foreign to all expectations of MY job, judging me and what I seemed to be doing by standards that didn't fit. But they're mainly women here, and younger ...

There, after nearly losing my temper and contemplating the skewerment of all passersby (since none was courageous enough to ask me to my face what I was up to) I fashioned an "On Break" sign and stuck it to my computer when I was taking ten or fifteen. Am I really going to have to do that here? Good God.

My supervisor tagged the conversation with comments to the effect that she in fact had suggested to the nosy person that I was probably on break, and "If I thought you were slacking, I would have already fired you." This just before 5pm yesterday.

I came home, shell-shocked (no pun intended) and spent five or ten minutes gently shaking at my desk. Why? Lack of control, I guess. Given the current hit-and-miss assessments she's been making of me and my work, how the hell will I know whether I appear to be slacking or not? I don't want to work here anymore, not longterm, but there's something about the concept of being fired that sounds discordant to my ears.

So, that accounts for fear, then; rage, too, must (I suppose) be factored in.

More bootprints on my soul. Why, oh why, aren't concerns shared with me directly?

My first senior year in college, the one where I tied up my computer science requirements and dived headlong into the more soothing textures of writing and literature, was lived with a group of gals who shared virtually no interests with me. I knew they took mild issue with certain of my louder friends, in fact the only two female friends I saw on a regular basis, and I made some efforts to accomodate; but it was obviously not enough, or even the only problem, though I didn't realize until later ...

The first time any of them actually sat down and had a thorough conversation with me, the first I really knew they were *upset* with me, was when I was told to be home at a certain time and arrived to find the Area Coordinator at a table with them and their List of Demands. No sharing with me beforehand, not even the more casual approach through a Resident Assistant -- they went straight to the "adult" staff. Said adult looked down his nose at me the entire conversation, didn't ask my side of things, not really. Even when I asked them why they hadn't just talked to me before. Instead, he made my continuation in residence dependent upon my bowing to their List.

So ... I guess you could say I have "Issues With Authority". Save for my parents (usually) and the occasional excellent teacher or church leader, I have distinctly ambivalent and frequently unpleasant memories of persons with control over me. I didn't realize until recently that half my problems with my supervisor are because I expect her to treat me like an equal -- another adult, intelligent in my own right, whose areas of expertise happen not to match hers in certain areas and thus need touching up. Instead, I get the slightly-retarded routine, and lectures on taking criticism personally.

A lyric fragment just popped into my mind: "Round and round the mulberry bush ..."

*sigh* Here's a poem I tripped over today:

This Be The Verse, by Philip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Moody, no? Depressing. Fits my current melancholia. Never fear, though, I always come out the other side; no matter what happens to me, I can always glance back through the grey patches and sunny glimpses to the stormclouds of my past, and say: "I have lived through worse."

Somehow, for tangled and FUBAR'ed reasons, that thought makes me smile.