Long Time, No Write
“Do you think you only write when you’re depressed?”
“No, what do you mean? Why?”
“I don’t know, you haven’t written anything since you left LA and I was wondering if you’ve stopped writing because you’re back on the East Coast?”
Damn. She had a good point.
I tend to only befriend extremely smart people with superior critical thinking skills. Then I act surprised when they call me out.
Throughout this soon to be over year I’ve had experiences I’ve wanted to write about, things I’ve wanted to say and insights to share. But something has kept me from recommitting to write. I’ve narrowed it down to two things:
1. I have had this fantasy of a triumphant return to AnikaTweaka. One where I go away for a few months and come back a brazen, Carrie Bradshaw-esque New Yorker with a fabulous apartment, an amazing job and a closet filled with sample sale items. I have been unwilling to let this dream go and in the meantime I haven’t shared some of the greatest experiences I’ve ever had. So I’m giving that up, not the fantasy of the constant sample sales, but the imposition it’s caused for the blog.
2. I'll admit that one of the original reasons for starting my blog was an LA-induced loneliness. There were very few people with whom I felt I could really connect. So I wrote a blog, a message in a bottle to kindred spirits all over. The blog connected me with folks I knew well, new friends I’d made, and complete strangers. But now that I’m where I should be and surrounded by a healthy cadre of good friends, does that mean I should drop off the blogoshpere universe? No, of course not. I’m giving that up, too.
So dear readers, please forgive me for the ridiculously long sabbatical from chronicling life. I’ve decided, if you’ll have me back, to reintroduce myself by creating “The Twelve Months of 2006 – A Retrospective on the Year After the Worst Year of My Life."
Prologue
I left the job that was making me physically, emotionally, and mentally ill. You see, in my four months with the unnamed public health organization I was almost an accessory to murder. My own, actually. The 10, then six, then four employees of this organization supposedly in existence to promote positive health outcomes for black people, was in fact attempting to drive each staff member to suicide and/or murder. And I participated – by continuing to work there thinking that I was fighting the good fight. Here’s a short chronicle of my time there:
Day One:
After seeing a rat in the building where I was to work, I attend a “Two-day Strategic Planning Meeting” (I use quotations as I witnessed nothing strategic or planning related in the 2 days I participated).
My saving grace was a dear old friend who was in town doing some freelance work. Annoyed at having been roped into flying in to participate in the mess that was the “Two-day Strategic Planning Meeting” he and I went out for drinks where he said, “I wish I’d known you were applying for this; I would’ve told you not to take the job.”
That was day one.
Month Two:
My boss quit. I was working with her on a national project; she was the person I respected most at the entire (six, then five person) operation and had been with the organization for several years. The summer before I started she took leave to tend to her mental health and to “deal with the stress of this place.”
My boss was the sanest person there.
The job had driven her mad, literally.
Also, my uncle died and I found out at the office. As I left to pack and head to the airport the Deputy Director said “we’ll work with you to make up the time off.” You see the office had punitive if not draconian policies and procedures with respect to leave, meaning there was none for three months, and then no vacation for a year. Did I mention the mission of the organization was to promote health? Anyway, the 50-page procedures manual didn’t take into account that someone might die within the probationary period. So I left for a week to attend a funeral (read – not a vacation) and when I got back I got my check, sans one week’s pay. Apparently the phrase “we’ll work with you to make up the time off” meant “we’ll dock you a week’s pay while you’re grieving.” Thanks team!
Month Three:
In addition to running a national program by myself, I was asked to take over the planning of a national meeting, which was to happen in three weeks. At the time there were no plenary speakers, a rough at best conference schedule and no budget.
That month I worked everyday, Saturdays and Sundays included. I even worked a little on Thanksgiving. My brother came to visit for a weekend and he even put together a mailing for them.
I somehow feel as though I made up the time off.
Month Four:
The meeting happened. It was a success.
I had a mental and emotional breakdown. I was at the end of my rope.
I checked out. I needed to get away from the “health organization,” from LA, from all diseased things, people, and places.
At the end of the conference, the Executive Director said that it was a critical time for the organization and therefore all pre-holiday leave was cancelled. Everyone was to report the next day, after working the entire weekend.
Good thinking. Great timing. Stellar management.
I went home for the holidays. My mom told me to quit and not go back. Her advice was based upon the fact that my hair was falling out, my skin had broken out and I had a recurring stomach virus that appeared strikingly similar to the beginning of an ulcer. I would have followed her advice but I still had to pack my things, which were in LA. During my post conference mental breakdown I had given notice on my apartment and had to be out by the beginning of February. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out of working there and pack and move by February but I figured everything would work out. So I vowed to go back and collect a paycheck until the rest of my things were packed and I could leave.
And miraculously everything worked out.
As I walked out of the office for the last time I felt a sense of immense relief that I would never have to go back there again.
I even think the rat I saw in the building on my first day tipped his hat and waved goodbye.
Which brings us to January...
“Do you think you only write when you’re depressed?”
“No, what do you mean? Why?”
“I don’t know, you haven’t written anything since you left LA and I was wondering if you’ve stopped writing because you’re back on the East Coast?”
Damn. She had a good point.
I tend to only befriend extremely smart people with superior critical thinking skills. Then I act surprised when they call me out.
Throughout this soon to be over year I’ve had experiences I’ve wanted to write about, things I’ve wanted to say and insights to share. But something has kept me from recommitting to write. I’ve narrowed it down to two things:
1. I have had this fantasy of a triumphant return to AnikaTweaka. One where I go away for a few months and come back a brazen, Carrie Bradshaw-esque New Yorker with a fabulous apartment, an amazing job and a closet filled with sample sale items. I have been unwilling to let this dream go and in the meantime I haven’t shared some of the greatest experiences I’ve ever had. So I’m giving that up, not the fantasy of the constant sample sales, but the imposition it’s caused for the blog.
2. I'll admit that one of the original reasons for starting my blog was an LA-induced loneliness. There were very few people with whom I felt I could really connect. So I wrote a blog, a message in a bottle to kindred spirits all over. The blog connected me with folks I knew well, new friends I’d made, and complete strangers. But now that I’m where I should be and surrounded by a healthy cadre of good friends, does that mean I should drop off the blogoshpere universe? No, of course not. I’m giving that up, too.
So dear readers, please forgive me for the ridiculously long sabbatical from chronicling life. I’ve decided, if you’ll have me back, to reintroduce myself by creating “The Twelve Months of 2006 – A Retrospective on the Year After the Worst Year of My Life."
Prologue
I left the job that was making me physically, emotionally, and mentally ill. You see, in my four months with the unnamed public health organization I was almost an accessory to murder. My own, actually. The 10, then six, then four employees of this organization supposedly in existence to promote positive health outcomes for black people, was in fact attempting to drive each staff member to suicide and/or murder. And I participated – by continuing to work there thinking that I was fighting the good fight. Here’s a short chronicle of my time there:
Day One:
After seeing a rat in the building where I was to work, I attend a “Two-day Strategic Planning Meeting” (I use quotations as I witnessed nothing strategic or planning related in the 2 days I participated).
My saving grace was a dear old friend who was in town doing some freelance work. Annoyed at having been roped into flying in to participate in the mess that was the “Two-day Strategic Planning Meeting” he and I went out for drinks where he said, “I wish I’d known you were applying for this; I would’ve told you not to take the job.”
That was day one.
Month Two:
My boss quit. I was working with her on a national project; she was the person I respected most at the entire (six, then five person) operation and had been with the organization for several years. The summer before I started she took leave to tend to her mental health and to “deal with the stress of this place.”
My boss was the sanest person there.
The job had driven her mad, literally.
Also, my uncle died and I found out at the office. As I left to pack and head to the airport the Deputy Director said “we’ll work with you to make up the time off.” You see the office had punitive if not draconian policies and procedures with respect to leave, meaning there was none for three months, and then no vacation for a year. Did I mention the mission of the organization was to promote health? Anyway, the 50-page procedures manual didn’t take into account that someone might die within the probationary period. So I left for a week to attend a funeral (read – not a vacation) and when I got back I got my check, sans one week’s pay. Apparently the phrase “we’ll work with you to make up the time off” meant “we’ll dock you a week’s pay while you’re grieving.” Thanks team!
Month Three:
In addition to running a national program by myself, I was asked to take over the planning of a national meeting, which was to happen in three weeks. At the time there were no plenary speakers, a rough at best conference schedule and no budget.
That month I worked everyday, Saturdays and Sundays included. I even worked a little on Thanksgiving. My brother came to visit for a weekend and he even put together a mailing for them.
I somehow feel as though I made up the time off.
Month Four:
The meeting happened. It was a success.
I had a mental and emotional breakdown. I was at the end of my rope.
I checked out. I needed to get away from the “health organization,” from LA, from all diseased things, people, and places.
At the end of the conference, the Executive Director said that it was a critical time for the organization and therefore all pre-holiday leave was cancelled. Everyone was to report the next day, after working the entire weekend.
Good thinking. Great timing. Stellar management.
I went home for the holidays. My mom told me to quit and not go back. Her advice was based upon the fact that my hair was falling out, my skin had broken out and I had a recurring stomach virus that appeared strikingly similar to the beginning of an ulcer. I would have followed her advice but I still had to pack my things, which were in LA. During my post conference mental breakdown I had given notice on my apartment and had to be out by the beginning of February. I wasn’t sure how I was going to get out of working there and pack and move by February but I figured everything would work out. So I vowed to go back and collect a paycheck until the rest of my things were packed and I could leave.
And miraculously everything worked out.
As I walked out of the office for the last time I felt a sense of immense relief that I would never have to go back there again.
I even think the rat I saw in the building on my first day tipped his hat and waved goodbye.
Which brings us to January...
posted by Anika at 9:20 PM
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