Another spent gas tank down the drain.
A thirty minute interview after a ninety minute one way drive, only to come out defeated.
What’s the continuous point?
My eyes burn from the clouded day light.
My Colitis is pushing my insides forward then backward causing frequent diarrhea and lightening pain.
But, why does any of this matter?
I find myself Unemployed for the first time in 4 years.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this
(It never is. is it?)
I had a new job at the current Community College I was working at.
I had 8 weeks of Summer Employment and then 6 weeks in the Fall of 2014.
But, after my body giving up on me this past April, my former Boss decided to spread discrimination and I lost everything.
*Being in the hospital is called ‘unreliable.’
(I have filed a Discrimination Case against my former Boss. So far, my Case is crawling).
I was then hired at a Private Institution(College Level), but HR failed to complete my paperwork on time, therefore resulting in me losing my Summer Course and now having to wait another 7 weeks for HR Clearance.
But, let’s get real.
My former Boss at the Community College lied to my face.
She informed me she wrote a positive release form so I could teach in my new Department, when in realty she coiled around the Employment Manager and in writing stated,
“Unreliable due to my hospital stays, therefore Unable to Rehire for her Department.”
The Employment Manager decided to make my Release Forms universal WITHOUT making any inquiries regarding my situation.
So yeah, Discrimination Case is necessary.
How dare we, the sick have to live like this.
I’m being put in the ground before any possibility of success in my existence.
But, when do we give up the fight?
“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” Dylan Thomas
A dreary, unemployed, silent, Tuesday afternoon has me thinking about the scene in The Breakfast Club when Bender pulls his switchblade out to “scare” Clark.
That one moment that passes as they look into each others eyes, just for a second, high school life became real.
I was sitting on a splintered elementary school swings, waiting for a girl who lived across the street from the playground.
She came over without questions, but hesitation.
I informed her that I was done playing games with her friend, and that things were becoming serious.
I pulled my knife out, opening the blade without touching its edge, and stuck it into the aged wood.
She yelled out my name, and I could see she knew behind it all, I was not wearing my rebel facade.
I was genuinely ready for war.
*I was 15 that day on the local school playground.
I had not seen The Breakfast Club until I was in my Twenties).
A year later, my personal Revolt evolved into a Sexual Revolution.
I am by no means a Nymphomaniac or ‘Sex Goddess’, but the debate, ideas, and Philosophies of and on Sex were a consistency in my circle.
We were unlocking the previous Sex Revolution.
In my circle, we were independent girls.
Dating who we wanted with no social pressure.
Most of us were a ‘secret something.’
There were summer private fornication parties, hooking up in the Science Labs while in school, explicit notes, and car sex.
(MANY of our rendezvous were same sex experiences).
We owned our sexuality.
But, when we did walk through those high school doors, we kept our power underground.
We were still aware of the misogynistic
push we were under.
We would be torn apart.
So, like the knife in the wood, change within teenage affliction manufactured us unless we tampered with the design and became a positive example of our disordered revolution.
Under the skin, my secrets are shadows.
I am real. I am flesh, certain.
To be open is a challenge.
I have established myself as a
Truth teller, the honesty parade, but when I pick up my naked manuscripts, I fall invalid.
Am I not ready to push the page, tear off the cover, bleed out the words?
Yes, there will be judgement, criticism, hate, but that baggage has always been apart of the operation of my experiences.
I think it’s the condition of the florist that I suffer from.
Perfection no matter how many modifications it takes is the only design for sale.
So, how to access me?
Dig up my roots, my extinction?
I must kill the appearance.
Pull back the curtains and own my truth.
This August will be fifteen years.
Fifteen years ago, I was in a Mental Hospital.
*The Deep 1953 by Jackson Pollock