Category Archives: Non-fiction

Non-fiction

The End of Summer

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I was born in the summer, and I used to love vacations, but now I loathe the season for being too hot and not giving enough breaks like the winter when there’s Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Years. I sweat and suffer through June, July, and August. September is insufferable too, but I begin to see a glimmer of hope. But it hasn’t cooled down. It’s almost ninety degrees in the morning, and a heat wave has flown overhead and doesn’t plan on flying away any time soon, like a massive raven in the sky. It flaps its heavy black wings and fans more heat onto the valley, where I sweat when I cross my legs.

I went to the gym yesterday just to stay cool and used a stair stepper for a half hour. It makes me drip sweat in front of a television. I wanted to watch the US Open, but on all six televisions in the cardio room, they showed one of those corny comic book movies like Thor or X-Men or Ironman. I was sure it was Thor. I saw a buff blond man with blue eyes in every scene. Why would I want to watch a movie while getting exercise if there’s no sound? It didn’t matter. I was wearing earbuds anyway.

I came home about an hour later and watched the US Open. Sinner played Medvedev, two of my favorite male players in the world, and their poetic strokes. Their rally points went on for over a minute. Amazing how long they could last through each point. They’re conditioned to be machines. In four sets, the number one player in the world, Sinner, won the quarterfinals and will advance to the semifinals to play whoever. I’m sure he’ll win. He’s just too good. I would’ve loved to have seen a fifth set to end the match, but Medvedev couldn’t hang: too many unforced errors. He’d reached fatigue by the fourth set.

The match ended around eight o’clock at night my time on the pacific. I settled in, knowing today would be long. But tonight, football season begins, and I have my fantasy team lined up. It’s something to look forward to when there isn’t much to look forward to anymore. I take what I can get. I never thought it would be this hard when I was a teenage boy with visions of so much more than what I have. No one told me life would be this disappointing. It isn’t something you would tell someone at so young an age. How will I last another thirty years? My parents have made it so far, and they seem happy.

And then I received an email from my tax firm. It said my social security number had been exposed on the dark web. A security breach occurred, and someone may have stolen my identity. I thought it was a phishing email at first, so I was afraid to click on any links. But after I called the firm, they told me the email was real. Bells and whistles went off in my mind. I logged onto the firm’s website and found more notifications. It suggested I call a few places to put a freeze on my accounts. At least they still look secure, but I don’t know. Those criminals may have cleaned me out by today.

Non-fiction

A Dream About English Class

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I struggled to get out of bed this morning. The bed felt feathery, and I was at the right level of sleepy. I didn’t want to get out, but I was forced. It was after five, and I would’ve stayed if I’d given myself permission, and I would’ve overslept. But who cares? I don’t even feel like writing. I don’t feel like doing anything. My job has me handcuffed. I’ve lost interest in everything.

I had a dream where I was taking a night class in a classroom with the best quarterback in the world: Mr. Patrick Mahomes. The English teacher assigned us a poetry assignment and elected Patrick to give us the subject.

He said he wanted the poem to be about 1960s women’s fashion in Norway and how it affected women’s culture. What a tough assignment, Mr. Mahomes. Poetry is difficult enough. Why must you make it harder with the subject you’re giving us now? I would have to research women’s fashion in 1960s Norway and find its impact on women’s culture in the decade.

I raised my hand and asked the teacher, “Why must we write about such a difficult subject, let alone have it be poetry?”

Mr. Mahomes turned around at his desk to face me and said, “There are two types of people in the world. You’re a ‘me’ person and I’m not.”

He turned back around in his desk to face forward and everyone applauded his statement except me. After all, he’s Patrick Mahomes. He would be applauded of course. Whatever he says is like a quote from Gandhi.

So everyone began the assignment, but not me. I was lost for words. I couldn’t come up with any in the context of women’s fashion culture in the 1960s in Norway.

Patrick turned around once more and smirked at me after his light jab at my personality. He bothered me to the point where I couldn’t start the assignment. Good thing I brought my smartphone, and I could look up the subject on Google. Lucky for us all, Norwegian women’s fashion reflected the American fashion of the decade. Women wore like late sixties Bohemian floral and paisley prints, mini skirts, turtlenecks, headbands, large sunglasses, knee-length dresses, bodices, beaded necklaces, wool coats in the winter with scarves and gloves, low heels or gogo boots, and shirt designs of checks and polka dots. It added enough flair to my free verse poem. I forgot what it was, but of course Mr. Mahomes wrote the most popular poem out of all. He’s the best quarterback in the world.

I woke up and never got back to sleep. The morning was still dark, the fan blowing against my tired body. Now it’s Wednesday. It’s going to be another struggle full of mistakes and pressure with my job. I want to quit today, but I can’t. I’m not a salesperson. I don’t wish to sell products, so when am I going to write to human resources? Should I wait until next week or do it before the week is over? Maybe I’ll spend eternity wishing I was alive. Death will suck as much as life. Somewhat of a humorous take on both.

Non-fiction

Labor Day Weekend

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It was a blessing to have a three-day weekend after all the work I’ve done, but now it’s over, and I must go back. I spent Saturday with my parents, and we watched tennis at my apartment. I hadn’t watched it in a while. The US Open was on, and I got to watch Daniil Medvedev. His motion is poetry: the way he serves with his feet moving lithely, the way he swings loosely with his backhand. He easily ousted an Australian in the third round in three sets with his wiry frame. I missed his match in the Round of 16, but I’ll catch him tomorrow in the quarterfinals. He may be my favorite player to watch, not to take away from Jannik Sinner, the best player in the world at this moment, who played last night against the American Tommy Paul.

When you see his name and hear it pronounced, you wouldn’t think Jannik is from Italy, but he is, or at least that’s the country he represents. Tommy was beating him in the first set, 4-1. I thought Jannik was going to lose that set with his unforced errors. He kept hitting forehands out of bounds. Tommy Paul seemed to have been beating him mentally. Jannik’s head wasn’t in the match. At one point, Tommy was up 40-0, I believe, in the game, when Jannik beat him four points straight to make it 4-2 and proceeded to win the next two games to tie the score. I knew it would happen. Sinner is a machine. He ended up winning the first set in a tiebreaker, 7-6.

I took a shower afterward and missed about half of the second set. When I came back I think Tommy Paul was up by a game. and neither opponent had broken serve. Tommy kept leading until about 5-4 when Sinner came back again and led him 6-5, but I’m not certain. The crowd was causing a ruckus, rooting for the American. That’s how it has always been at the US Open, unlike Wimbledon or the French Open, where the crowd is relatively polite. The American crowd doesn’t hold back like it’s a football game. The chair umpire had to keep hushing them whenever Jannik tried to serve because they were trying to break his concentration. But Sinner is such a cyborg that he doesn’t even let them faze him.

He led Tommy Paul in aces. His average service speed was 124 MPH to Paul’s 116, I believe. Sinner made some unbelievable crosscourt forehands when Paul sent him to the doubles lines. Sinner would slide across the hardcourt like a hockey player to retrieve those balls and defeat Tommy with multiple passing shots. Jannik won the second set in another tiebreaker, and by the third set, Tommy Paul was finished. It may have been exhaustion, but his shots weren’t as powerful, nor was his serve. He kept hitting the ball into the net when it looked like Sinner was only getting started. Jannik had saved his energy after playing his worst tennis in the first set, which he won anyway.

He beat Tommy with ease in the third set and won the match three sets to zero to make his way to the quarterfinals, where he’ll meet Daniil Medvedev sometime tomorrow. I won’t miss that match. Who knows if Jannik Sinner will win the US Open? The only major tournament he has won this year is the Australian Open, but he’s still the number-one seed based on his record. He has lost only twice in the majors this year. I expect him to be at the top for a long time.

I hadn’t watched tennis this close in years to keep up with the best in the world, both men and women. Iga Swiatek is the women’s best. She’s a machine as well, from Poland, and just as impressive to watch as Jannik Sinner.

Non-fiction

Nothing Changes

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I crawl along when nothing changes. All I see are parasites of my time sucking at my patience. What else can I do but let them finish before continuing on my path? They move on to the next hosts and finish them as well. I can’t tell if someone is or not, not anymore. That’s how they feast upon the land. Thank God for text messages, or they would call me every day. Sometimes someone will call from the likes of Colorado, usually a telemarketer. I know enough about cold calls from my job. It’s the worst thing I could do, but I must do it to get paid, so I’m a parasite as well. For the most part, that’s what humans are, although we would prefer not to admit it to ourselves or anyone. Who would want that label? It’s painted in such a harsh light. But I do believe it’s in our nature to suck the blood of someone in front of us who can’t look over his shoulder at what we’re about to do.

The best defense against a parasite is a lack of hygiene. Don’t keep yourself clean. They won’t come near. Don’t wash your hands after you use the bathroom, or wear repellent such as too much cologne or perfume, preferably one that’s pungent, and they’ll stay away. Educate yourself on how to detect a parasite before he latches onto your skin. Eat a well-balanced diet for optimal energy so you can have a stronger awareness of parasites in your vicinity. The weaker you are, the more vulnerable you are to infections.

Know early on you’re dealing with a parasite. Look for warning signs such as useless banter when your time is being sucked away. Fend him off immediately by saying you must get to work even if he knows your work schedule. A parasite could be your mom after all. It doesn’t just have to be a shitty neighbor or shitty friend or shitty acquaintance. You must be bold in their presence, or this parasite might suck up your time and energy. God knows they’ve sucked up enough of mine. I can barely walk these days after too many parasitic infections. They can’t kill me but they can do their job at making me wish for death, at which case I become vulnerable to even more.

Non-fiction

A Chicken in a Thunderstorm

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I ate at a restaurant last night, more like a diner, where the acoustics gave me an earache. A table of screaming girls drunk off something and boisterous kids at the table behind me filled the ambiance. I couldn’t even hear my father, part of it because he lacked energy and could barely speak up. Except I heard him ask me if I’ve been looking for jobs. I would’ve rather not heard him say that because the job search has me feeling hopeless. I didn’t know what to say other than nothing.

I ate a half-pound cheeseburger, and I’d had better, I’d had worse. It tasted like home cooking if you’re into that. I say you’re better off at home where it’s cheaper and the sound won’t scratch your eardrums. My mother said her fish and chips tasted the same. She called it comfort food, and I agreed.

My father said it was the best egg sandwich he’d ever eaten. I tasted hyperbole, but maybe he was honest. It didn’t look that great, and he didn’t even eat the bacon. He fed it to me like I was a dog. How could he not eat it on a breakfast sandwich? That’s like a PB&J without the jelly. But his diet has always been strange. He used to eat Necco wafers for candy. If you’ve never had a Necco wafer, it’s the worst candy ever invented. Basically a paint chip with sugar. I may as well be eating chalk. His favorite licorice is black over red. His favorite chocolate is marzipan. Where did he pick up this unusual palette? Other people like those things since they still exist, don’t they? I have more conventional taste buds that crave pepperoni and mushrooms on my pizza. He likes black olives, which ruin the taste. Oddly enough, I used to enjoy black olives when I was a kid. I would stick them on my fingers and eat them off. It was fun. Nowadays, such a thing I won’t do. I don’t get close to black olives or green olives unless I’m drinking a cocktail. But since I don’t drink anymore, having one makes no sense. Actually I don’t mind one on a Greek salad with feta cheese and cucumbers. I’m sure they go on one but not positive. It could be black olives instead.

But anyway, he’s getting more exhausted, forgetting the names of football players or getting them wrong altogether. I have to correct him or pretend he got them right to not point it out. Is this the beginning of dementia? I’m worried. I’ve moved to Palm Springs knowing I’ll have to take care of them sooner than later. My mother is doing alright, but I see him every weekend and notice his cognitive decline. His intelligence has remained, but his memory is becoming duller than ever. I don’t recall him a year ago forgetting so many names. He had things to tell me yesterday, but they kept slipping from his mind. Wow. I asked Mom about his lethargy, and she said he took B-12 shots the other week, but his urine has been way too yellow. I didn’t see the issue with that. I guess there must. Otherwise she wouldn’t have brought it up.

The question remains where will I be in the next five years when their health deteriorates? They’ll be in their eighties, and I’ll be in my fifties. I don’t know if I’ll even have a job. What will I do to support them and myself? I often worry about how I’ll survive alone when they’re gone. I’ll find a way through my resilience, although I’m too scared to find out how.

Non-fiction

Burnout

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My therapist told me I should tell my supervisor that my work is impacting my mental health. She’s right. And I should transfer to another department. I could work with drivers again like I did in the beginning, unfortunately for less pay but also a healthier balance instead of stressing over work, even when I’m gone. My days and nights consist of work, exercise, eating, and sleep, in that order. But work is on my mind all day about mistakes I’d made and the inundation of assignments, and when I’ll get fired. Where will I land?

A new marketing strategy they assigned on Thursday morning, one I don’t understand at all, possibly had to do with a bonus program for customers. I don’t know. I didn’t attend school for a degree in marketing, and so what are these buzzwords? Not only do I have to complete that assignment, but I also have to close my cases, prevent businesses from attrition, and answer emails that are three days old. And the list keeps growing. There aren’t enough hours in the day unless they expect me to work overtime which I refuse to do. They put me on a salary, and I’m haunted by the word expectations. Expectations, expectations, expectations… I can’t maintain, and I’m supposed to meet a quota each month, which I’m not even close to meeting. Our products suck, and most customers aren’t interested in buying. We’re far inferior to our competitors and do nothing close to competing, making everything a harder sell.

I have my own book of business with over three thousand clients, and I’m supposed to take care of them all. One of them was interested in staying with our company but was offered a deal from a competitor of a fifteen thousand dollar signing bonus, and he asked me what we could do to compete against the offer. I didn’t know. I’m clueless when it comes to marketing, and my company is full of so many stipulations that I had to ask the higher-ups what we could provide. And so the higher-ups decided for me to pitch a promo of five dollars off any order over thirty-five dollars. Are you kidding? I thought, how the hell would the owner reject the fifteen thousand dollars for a puny promo like what my company offered. Not to mention the customer was partially deaf, so I had trouble hearing him talk over the phone. At one point, he said, “Do you even know what you’re doing?” No. Not at all. He could tell I was inexperienced.

There are so many actions I can’t take. They go against company policy. I have to email everyone who wants me to set up their promotions, and they have to agree in the email and over the phone. The email has to be accurate, and I must show the email to the higher-ups to receive a credit, or I could be terminated. I don’t know how much commission I would make off each one, but I do know my payslips have been sad. I can’t make a living off this job, and they couldn’t make me work any harder.

I have to walk away to restore my sanity. I’m not sleeping. I’m no longer enjoying the simple pleasures. My job has clutched me at the throat. I’m cooked. I should complain to HR, but would they have my back? I’m not sure. I heard HR works only in the best interest of the president and the company. Employees are expendable. I’m not needed. They wouldn’t care if I left tomorrow, evidently through the payslips. But hey, they provide me with medical and dental insurance from an insurance company that blows, of which my therapist has refused to partner, so I have to pay her the full amount without any coverage.

And she’s just okay, nothing great. I see her once a week and don’t feel any better. Have you ever sat with a therapist and ran out of words to say before the fifty minutes were over? I go through that problem every time. And she just sits through my laptop and says close to nothing. And when she does, she regurgitates what she has already said. I feel hopeless. I’m waiting for a glimmer.

Non-fiction

Criticism or Compassion

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I keep a digital notebook in my backpack, and it’s barely used. It’s for jotting notes or writing sonnets when I have time, and time these days is at a premium. There are just not enough hours to do everything. There used to be time a plenty when I was younger, but more responsibilities have fallen onto my plate, and I barely have the space to enjoy life’s simplicities.

But anyway, I write in this notebook words of criticism and compassion. I’ve been reading about ways to challenge my inner critic, and one exercise is to go a day criticizing myself about everything, just piling it on. And then the following day, replace those criticisms with statements of compassion, and alternating day by day as an experiment to see how I benefit from them both. I’m supposed to see that self-criticism doesn’t benefit me at all.

I used to call myself stupid and incompetent, among other nasty accusations. I thought it would help me improve if I just kept treating myself that way, thinking I would learn my lesson and smarten up. But such isn’t the case. Self-compassion is the better route. Instead of calling myself an idiot, I can tell myself I did my best. But then my self-critic would tell me, “You need to do more. That’s not enough.” At which my self-compassionate voice would say, “Yes it is.”

The war goes on forever. I’m still critical of myself, and that’ll probably never go away. If I could just give self-compassion a chance… My inner critic might weaken. At least I hope. He’s strong and tough to defeat. I’ve built him up for so many years. I can say a decade ago he was domineering, laughing, calling me weak. The self-critic isn’t me. I’ve been possessed by someone else who wants to inflict punishment for a reason, a reason I can’t find. I live it every day. I can’t go to sleep. The inner critic is too loud. He’s the ringing in my ears. I try to counterattack him with self-compassion, but the inner critic tells me, “Ha, how phony.” I submit to him and tell him, “Okay, Mr. Self-Critic. You’re right.” I let him win, but in reality what good has he done? Has he helped me improve? My logic tells me no.

Was this something I was taught since early age? Was I bludgeoned by the message that the only way I’ll get by is through criticizing myself, calling myself an idiot, and telling myself that I’m incompetent? Do they teach self-compassion in school, or is it the opposite? My peers were critics. Not many were compassionate. I was always competing for something to achieve. I had to get better grades to go to a nice college. And once I made it to that college, I had to get better grades to score that nice job after graduation. It only got worse from there. All the while, people insinuated I was dumb or incapable, thinking discipline would turn me into something better. Did any of it really work, or did it only hinder me and make me worse than I was?

I can’t control the critics, but I can control the compassion within myself through practice. The worksheet I’d followed asked me if I would say these things to a loved one or a child. Would I call them idiots or incompetent? No, of course. I wouldn’t even come close, so why would I say it to myself? What have I done to deserve this sort of treatment? I’ve listened too much to all the critics and have never been skeptical. I was always saying, “Okay, you’re right.” I’ve even been treated that way by friends. It boggles me how I kept them around. They’re not around anymore. I can honestly say I haven’t had many good friends. What’s a good friend like? Most friends would tease me in front of other friends to make themselves look better. I wisened up and cut them loose. Now I barely have any friends at all. It takes a lot of work, but I must learn to surround myself with compassionate people and leave the critics behind.

Non-fiction

Being Sick

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I haven’t been sick in a long, long time, not since I can remember. I’m talking about the general illness: the cough and sore throat, along with nausea and diarrhea. I’ve been lucky thus far, but there are many types of illnesses besides that, such as appendicitis which I recovered from around 2006.

It happened one night when I was driving north to see my parents. I felt in my stomach a dull pain. I thought it was gas, so I tried to sleep. But it kept me up at night, and the pain only worsened like it was tying my stomach in knots. I woke up my parents in the middle of the night and told them I had to go to the hospital.

The doctor never ran any tests on me and decided I had gas. She suggested I take Tums, so I went home without any remedy. The pain was still there. It only got worse on the second day, but I tried to pay it no mind.

It got to its worst on day three when I looked in the mirror and saw my stomach drooping to the left side of my body. It looked unnatural, so I drove to urgent care with a centralized pain on my left side and waited forever in the waiting room like I always did.

The doctor finally saw me in his office. He wore a tracksuit and chewed gum. All he was missing was a whistle. I told him about the pain and showed my stomach drooping to one side. He told me to jump. And when I did, it was as if a bowling ball had punched me in the gut. I grimaced in pain and held my stomach.

The doctor immediately wrote on his clipboard. “You need to go to the hospital right away. Have them take x-rays.”

He never told me what he thought it was. I drove to the college hospital, and they directed me to radiology, where they took the x-rays–I forgot which kind.

A specialist saw me in a room and showed me the x-rays, where the issue lay, and told me my appendix was about to burst.

“My what?”

I’d never heard about appendicitis except for one time when it attacked a high school friend. He had to miss school for over a month, and I thought he was lucky. But my tune had changed.

The doctor who would operate on me flew in from South Africa. His name was so long that he told me just to call him Dr. K. He pressed on my stomach where it drooped while I lay in a hospital bed, and I winced again in pain.

“You’re very lucky,” he told me. “I will put you out and begin the operation.”

When I woke up again, the surgery was all done. Dr. K had removed my appendix through my stomach and left a little crescent-shaped scar. But I still felt a discomfort in my lower abdomen as if the appendicitis was still there.

They discharged me on the day after. I remember my mother was both angry and worried because she thought I was on the cliff of death, because my appendix had almost burst. I didn’t feel the same way, with an inkling I would still survive, and I wasn’t all too pleased. It wasn’t a happier time in my life.

That was really my only surgery. The hospital would send me a bill of over a thousand dollars, and I was furious because they’d misdiagnosed me the first time. I wrote an angry letter to the head of the department, and he waived the entire bill. What was a thousand dollars to them? The surgery was basically free.

I’ve never broken bones or dealt with fractures. I’m full of mental illnesses that shall never go away. I believe I have carpal tunnel in my left hand induced by work. No genetic illnesses or autoimmune disorders, but I do get migraines from time to time. All in all, I’m mostly a bill of good health.

Non-fiction

A Few Things About Birds

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My mother doesn’t watch birds, but she can tell you the name of any one that she sees. It’s impressive. I don’t know where she picked up that talent. Or she can tell you the name of any tree no matter where she is.

I ask her, “Hey Mom, what kind of tree is that?”

“Oh, that’s the Bois Dentelle, found near the Indian Ocean.”

“But Mom, we’re in Fresno.”

Don’t get me wrong. I can pick a pine tree out of a lineup. That’s not too hard. But a sycamore, that’s a different story.

The only tree I’m positively familiar with is a palm tree, probably the easiest tree to recognize. I’ve lived in Southern California for thirty-four years and used to live about two or three miles from Beverly Hills. Now I live in Palm Springs, where palm trees are all I see. But if I’m stuck in the forest somewhere in Northern California, I might be stumped at the type of tree.

The same goes for birds. I can identify a cardinal or a bluejay, both of which are rarely ever seen. In fact I don’t remember the last time I’ve seen either bird. They just don’t show themselves where I live, which makes them exotic. I see nothing but robins or finches (I think they are, but not positive) or crows, crows a plenty near my apartment.

I don’t know the attraction. What are they fond of that makes them want to hang out near where I live? Is it the palm trees? I know crows are a bad sign. People refer to them as harbingers of death. I haven’t died yet. They’re also supposed to be the messengers between the physical world and the spiritual. I have no messages to convey other than where has my spirit been this whole time? I’m also supposed to count crows for the meaning:

One for sorrow: there’s plenty of that

Two for mirth, of which there’s none.

Three for a funeral. I haven’t been to one of those in over a decade.

Four for birth: I can’t remember the last time someone had a baby. Maybe it’s the birth of something that isn’t human, such as the birth of faith, the birth of creativity, the birth of contentment.

Crows are also supposed to be a sign that something significant is about to happen. I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for that. Crows are figures in Hindu mythology for departed souls and are sometimes actually interpreted as symbols of good luck, smarts, and guardianship. Then again, Christianity sees them as bad omens for sin and temptation.

The only way I can identify with crows is that they guard secrets, and I have plenty of those. Nothing exciting, just things I’m too embarrassed to share.

All in all, crows are misunderstood. They’re birds like any other. They’re just big and black, and they get a bad rap because of their color, which society feels represents something ominous when really it means nothing.

The only negative trait I can see is that they’re carrions. Who likes to see a bird like the crow feast on a dead squirrel on the road? I don’t remember the last person who liked a turkey vulture. You don’t see framed pictures of any vultures in someone’s house. No one has elected to go vulture-watching.

Non-fiction

Where Did It Go?

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I’m writing every morning but have run out of content, so the only way to produce is to regurgitate the old. But even that has slipped my mind. So now I’m left with nothing but mashed potatoes in my brain. I feel like I’m dead if death is how this feels. Maybe I should write once a week, so then I’ll have something to write about instead of once a day.

There are certain thoughts I can’t mention. Only my journal and therapist know. But I bet it would be interesting. Readers would gobble up that type of shit, but it can’t be written, which is unfortunate. How many secrets do people keep? I wish there were none at all.

I have a dark mind. There’s nothing about it that’s light. A kid in high school used to call me pessimistic. Not that word exactly, just negative. And he was right. I didn’t like that kid, never did. His name was Ben too. I don’t know what happened to him. I can do a quick Google search if I want, but I won’t. I remember he had the same girlfriend from freshman to senior year. How did he do that? He played soccer and had red hair. He used to be nice in junior high before he turned into a prick and called me names I didn’t appreciate. I forgot what those names were, but they weren’t pleasant. How the hell did I think of him this morning? How random. He rode the school bus with me and would harass me by calling me negative, and I had nothing to say.

I learned my negativity from my father, who was negative all the time and is still. Whenever I visit him, he always has something negative to say about mostly everything, and he brings me and my mother down. My mother would say, “Quit being so negative.” But it wouldn’t stop my father, and I caught his illness. So now I see the dark side of things, and it doesn’t really help. Maybe he was being more of a realist, and my mother has always been too much of an optimist. She was that way always. I guess the dark side has always been more convincing to me.

But anyway, I’ll just stick with today’s agenda. It’s Monday, another long week ahead of sales. I have to sell products no one wants, and I have to sell enough to meet the quota expectations. I hate that word: expectations. It really makes the pressure heavier. They expect me to sell these products and I expect me not to care. The job has robbed me of my imagination through stress, and so I struggle every day.

I don’t know what else to do. I could be a better salesperson, but sales was something I never wanted to get into. I just ended up that way because the company has switched me to so many roles. So this was where I landed. They inundate me with too many cases and other assignments, not to mention the pile of emails I have to answer each day. The pile only gets deeper, and I can never catch up. If I was still drinking, I’m sure the drinking would get worse. But that problem was something I got over. It didn’t solve everything.

Now the problems have changed. I look for other jobs, but all the websites like LinkedIn and Indeed and Glassdoor offer are jobs of the same type because of my resume. So it’s hard to change careers. And now that I’m over forty it’s difficult even more. Businesses post disclaimers that they’re equal opportunity and they accept those who are disabled and over forty. At the same time, in the application, they ask for my ethnicity, how old I am, and if I’m disabled. If they were equal opportunity, then why would they need to know? Wouldn’t it not matter? What am I missing? It’s hard to balance all this stress with what I hope to do. I’ve lost what I really wanted.