You know, one of the problems of being unemployed is that you feel you have to prove you are good, really good at something, and you spend your days obsessing about what that something could possibly be.
Can I really write? Were I ever meant to be anything else than a part-time seller of rice and beans in my cousin’s food truck? Should I be answering phone calls in some emergency room’s reception? Divorced? Two kids? Grandkids? On Prozac? Juggling my existence between duty, religion, and a slow suicide by food? I edited most of that from my script, some even before it could ever become part of my movie, and I feel proud. And yet, these days I am not living according to my preferred story line. I have the safety of my body but my mind, through my sense of purpose, is under assault.
The annoying thing about being “reorganized” out of your job is that you feel and you know that some confabulation of incompetent jackasses took away the meaning of your life. This is sad when you have no money, it is still sad when you have enough to survive because it is not really about money. It feels like the’ve cut out some small but vital part of your self, like a toe or the tip of your tongue. You are alive and you know you will keep on living but you feel unbalanced, nothing taste as good as it used to taste, there is something undeniably wrong with the world.
You know that this wrong is not exactly about you; it is simply that you were born in one of those transitional periods of history in which an imbalance in society can only be balanced by crises. You are just one of the casualties. Very few options, beyond resilience, are accessible to you. However, the conjunction of midlife crisis and professional failure is not a good place in which to grow more resilient.
What other options do I have? Migration; the spontaneous way in which nature balances excess populations and hopeless people.—This is not completely accurate, nature prefers to kill-off excedents. But let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that my aim is to be balanced out in survival. Homo sapiens made it out of Africa; I will get out of Qatar. Eventually. I hope.
In the meantime, my questions remain. Am I good for anything? Am I an excedent of the times I live? And how will the course of history balance me out? I suspect that the course of history is not concerned at all with my existence, and I am disappointed. I always felt I was the main character of this awesome book called The poor girl who grew up to save the world. Obviously, I am not, and that sucks.