So, I started working with a recruiter this week. This is a strange experience for me. I've never NOT gotten jobs that I've applied for, never been unemployed, and in fact, what used to happen is that I would get offered jobs before I really had thought about applying for them. I had a series of jobs that evolved this way, and some of them I held for years. So, the stark reality that I've now been unemployed for coming up on three months is a little startling for me.
When offered the chance to work with a recruiter, I immediately thought, "Ummmm, no. I'm good." But if I'm being honest, I've done really well getting myself some interviews; better even than most in this economy. But, it's been three months, and I haven't closed an offer. And here's why - I have a lot of skills, but may not posses a lot of experience in negotiating. I can do full splits, train the heck out of someone on something that is killer boring and make them laugh while doing it, and make some out of this world black bean soup. But negotiating my worth is completely foreign to me.
This office specializes with helping people who want to make a career change, re-packaging skills and experience, and helping people haggle their offers, without making it seem like they're greasy-car-salesmanning their way through it. I need this.
It's funny how I wrote unabashedly about being someone who needs a lot of professional help. I don't hesitate to pay for my pants to get hemmed, because I cannot do that with any degree of even pretending to get a good finished product. I didn't think twice about emailing my therapist today to make an appointment for next week. So, why the stigma about working with someone who does this for a living? I am someone with short legs, so I need hemmed pants. I am someone who wants to process my life and be healthier, so I log hours on the therapy couch. I am someone who wants to get a job, so why shouldn't I spend time with a recruiter who is a professional job-getter?
I think this whole thing feels so amazingly singularly defining, that my brain somehow can't process that it relates to other things I've walked through. I think somehow the lessons I've learned don't apply. When I was training for my black belt test, there were things I could do on my own, and things I couldn't. I put myself on a serious regimen of conditioning 3-4 hours a week, in addition to my classes and running. I worked on my essay for months. But I couldn't tailor my Gi (uniform) without taking it to someone, I couldn't spar without a partner, and I asked one fellow instructor to do an hour of additional sparring with me every week, and another instructor to work mitts with me every week. I couldn't have gotten there on my own, and my essay reflected that. So, expecting the multi-faceted challenge of job searching and applying to include only tasks I can excel at by myself, at my kitchen table is probably not the best perspective.
Now, before everyone jumps to tell me their good or bad experiences with a recruiter, you have to all know that I was very deliberate and cautious in making this decision. I spent two weeks talking to them, talked to almost all of their staff, talked to former clients, got their placement stats for the last year (because I wanted to focus on information pertinent to the economy and the recent market), stats for people in my pay range, and stats for people in my age range. I did my own re-con on their results, and compared them with results for other recruiting groups. None of this negates the tinge of anxiety I feel about handing some of this over to someone else; but the bigger thing for me is that I can't keep doing this by myself and feeling like I don't know what I'm doing well and what I'm missing.
I admitted to a couple of people that while significant pressure would not have induced me to say this, I needed the time not working in January and February. I needed time to re-center, to focus on what's important, to get the expectations and disappointments of my last employer out of my system. But, now it's the third month, and I'm DONE. I'm done second guessing myself, I'm done going on bad interviews. I'm done networking and applying my way into jobs where the employer hasn't decided what they can budget for the position, or ones who are making a nod at an external search when they are already certain they are filling it internally. I'm done not being sure what else I should be doing. It's go time.
What's ironic about all of this, is that after spending two months writing, and walking, and praying, and meditating, processing, rationalizing, and shoring up my self-esteem, and then, abandoning trying to renovate that part of my life in favor of building a whole new foundation and housing my self-esteem inside of that . . . After all of this, the first thing the recruiting team asked me to do is fill out a lengthy survey about my successes, goals, skills, and work experience. No brainer, right? But the second part of the survey was about what motivates and excites me (I resisted the urge to just cut and paste the URL for this blog as answer to those queries), and what tangible results I garnered in my last job.
I worked on this survey for about 10-12 hours. Over the span of 60 hours. I wrote 35 pages. THIRTY.FIVE.
I gather it usually takes most people a bit longer on this, so I am grateful to the people in my network and in my support system who pushed me to define my thoughts about a perfect job, about what I'm enthusiastic about, and defining deal-breakers and wish lists earlier. I was able to quickly synthesize thoughts and feelings and information I had gathered before and complete those parts of the survey pretty expeditiously.
What was hard for me was writing about all of my results, quantitative and qualitative. I went into that part with about 4 things in mind. As I went down the list, four more came out of my typing fingers, almost without my thought. Then five more. And on, and on until I had collected close to 30.
And then I was. so. angry.
After writing all of this, I talked with a friend. And realized, there was about 3% of anger directed towards the people who overlooked my significant contributions. And 97% of regret and bitterness towards myself . . . how could I give so much? How could I do it so blindly without regard for what was good for me and what I was appreciated for? How could I do it for so long, unhappily, plugging away pulling together more and more results, and all the while being less and less satisfied?
And then, it hit me.
I finished the survey. And I read back over it, and saw all I had done, felt, accomplished, was motivated by, and was disappointed by. And it washed over me. And I was completely overwhelmed, and disheartened.
I sent off the survey, meanwhile kicking myself. It didn't matter that I had walked for over an hour that morning, followed by some really clarifying meditation, I was able to speak up (type up?) and say,
"After that I need to go clear my head." So, I went and walked for another hour, followed by cooking for 2. Thusly, the Christie processes, moves towards acceptance, and sees a glimmer of peace off in the distance.
This wouldn't have happened six months ago. I would have been upset, or demotivated, or disheartened or disappointed by whatever, and then just gone onto the next thing on my list without consideration for my all-rightness, without processing even where I was or the fact that I was feeling less than good. Which probably means I was less than alright often.
None of that is good, but if it lead me to a place where I can see that I need help, where I can take advantage of help that is being offered (be it a walk with a friend, therapy, working with a recruiter), and where I am in a position to assess what I need in the moment, and then do it . . . then it's ok that I did what I did to get to this place. I have to forgive myself for the hole I let myself fall down, because getting out of the hole is so powerful and has created so much healthy momentum for me as I climb up.
And that's all for today. I could go on and on, but, I think what this means is that I am ready not just to tear it up in a new job, but to give my best to myself in the new career and lifestyle I discover. And so, with some luck, or effort, or help, or mad recruitment up in here, let's all believe that can happen soon.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Monday, March 26, 2012
Pain
I'm in a little pain today. My knees have been hurting, and that has had some implications for my workouts, but mostly, I've accepted that this is what my knees do. Allowing pain to determine what I can do would mean to give up doing a lot of things I like. So, I go do them and keep a steady supply of ice packs in my freezer. I also have blisters on the soles of my feet, but this is not too awful either.
Today I'm in pain because it's my dad's birthday.
I'm not sure why this bothers me more than other meaningful days. I could get really sad on the anniversary of his death, and often, I do get a little introspective but not usually anything approaching full sadness. It's possible that because I've attached some other things to that date, that August 9th and 10th mean different things to me now. I intentionally chose to start and end my Flickr 365 days photo project on these dates and so I think about my dad. I think about the hospice nurse coming to the house twice that night - once shortly before midnight, and then again, just a couple hours later. But I also think about managing to finish taking a self portrait every day for 365 unbroken days despite personal issues, a crazy work schedule, not one but two knee injuries, and a knee surgery RIGHT before finishing. I emptied that day out, and refilled it with triumph and closure and accomplishment. I could be bothered over Thanksgiving and Christmas, because I don't have the option to spend those holidays with my father anymore.
You'd think Father's Day would be the problem but, instead, it's this day, every year, that lurks and looms and makes March very problematic for me. I have taken to writing this day on my calendar, as if I'd forget. This is one of the vestiges of my relationship with my dad. I also kept his phone number in my phone (which is just silly, because his phone number was the phone number I grew up with and is imprinted on my DNA at this point. Keeping it in my phone isn't about remembering the number, of course, since I wouldn't need to use the phone number anyways. It's because taking him out of my phone feels wrong). I can't seem to listen to Dire Straits without laughing and then feeling melancholy. And, I write this date in each year, "Dad's Birthday" in the same way that my calendar is marked for "Rob's birthday" as a reminder to send a card or do whatever I do because I think birthdays are the best (mine, yours, everyone's - love birthdays).
There isn't anywhere to send a card. I can't pick up the phone and call my dad (using the number I've known since I knew there were phone numbers in the world) to say happy birthday. I can't make a plan to celebrate his birthday with him. I can't call my brother and see if he wants to join forces for a lunch, a present, anything. Why is it on my calendar? Because not putting it there makes the day feel even worse to me.
On March 26th, it doesn't matter if I'm working, or if it's the weekend. It doesn't matter if I'm alone, or with people. It doesn't matter if I drive up into the mountains or lie flat on my back on the couch and stare at the open canvass of my ceiling. It doesn't matter if I eat chicken and brussel sprouts or if I try to numb out with some really bad carbs. All I can think of is how, somehow, I was the only person who knew on his last birthday that it was his last birthday.
It was actually a great day, but with my moving cross-country two months later, and him going so severely down hill two months after that, it was the last time I got to do a family celebration of any kind with him. And the fact that it was for him made him that much more excited and pleased. We had a great day, but in a place that was nowhere near the back of my mind, I knew with deep certainty and some not insignificant sense of peace, that there wouldn't be another birthday with him, and that that almost surely meant we had already had our last Thanksgiving, Christmas, . . . I drank a shot with him and my brother and thought, "I hope this day is good enough to count for everything we won't have."
I think that there are days that I tell myself that death is part of life, and that I can live with that. And there are days that I tell not only myself, but others too, that if he hadn't died, we might not have gotten to the place we got to in our relationship . . . that it took to the end for my dad to be really honest, open, and to tell me what he loved about me in a way I believed it. And there are days where I am very relieved that he's not struggling, in pain, or fighting the demons he dealt with long before the cancer.
But I don't ever have those days on March 26th. On this day I am struck that I'm supposed to somehow be ok with 25 years of what can only be described as troubled and dysfunctional love with my dad followed by 2 weeks of him sharing under what can only be described as enormous pressure. On this day I can't help but think how sad it is that he never met his grandchildren, and that he'll never meet my future-and-hypothetical kids. On this day it's a little heartbreaking that he'll never see any of us get married. On this day I remember drinking that shot with him, but I also remember calling my Jewish family the morning after he died to make sure that when they were drinking wine that night on Shabat that they would change the prayer they had been saying for him and not waste it.
I was lucky today to spend the day with a smart, sensitive, interesting 10 year old and all-around cool kid. My friend thinks I gave her 6 hours of not struggling with what to do with him on spring break, but in reality she gave me 6 hours of talking about karma (with a 10 year old!! See, he is REALLY cool), helping him practice photography, getting some sunshine, and comparing thoughts on the pros and cons of being an oldest sibling. But . . . I have to then be at home and face the fact of this day.
Pain is there to keep us safe. And I know, in that way, pain is healthy. But on this day, pain doesn't make a lot of sense to me. I knew Knew KNEW that he was dying (maybe before he did), and I didn't just tell myself I was ok with it, I really was. But on this day, nothing feels exactly right because 4 years ago shots and salads and lazy conversation did have some unexpected rightness.
So, there it is. I have been writing all week, and unable to finish anything because this date has been clouding up a lot of things for me. A friend who also lost her father asked me a couple of months ago, "How long is it normal to grieve?" I said something ostensibly wise about how grief has no set timeline. I said that we all go through life with a collection of people we think we can count on, and when one goes missing, we can't expect that hole to not be a wound, and one that throbs. I told her however she felt her grief and sadness was "normal." And all of that is more easily said than done.
This is it for me. This 24 hours.
Today I'm in pain because it's my dad's birthday.
I'm not sure why this bothers me more than other meaningful days. I could get really sad on the anniversary of his death, and often, I do get a little introspective but not usually anything approaching full sadness. It's possible that because I've attached some other things to that date, that August 9th and 10th mean different things to me now. I intentionally chose to start and end my Flickr 365 days photo project on these dates and so I think about my dad. I think about the hospice nurse coming to the house twice that night - once shortly before midnight, and then again, just a couple hours later. But I also think about managing to finish taking a self portrait every day for 365 unbroken days despite personal issues, a crazy work schedule, not one but two knee injuries, and a knee surgery RIGHT before finishing. I emptied that day out, and refilled it with triumph and closure and accomplishment. I could be bothered over Thanksgiving and Christmas, because I don't have the option to spend those holidays with my father anymore.
You'd think Father's Day would be the problem but, instead, it's this day, every year, that lurks and looms and makes March very problematic for me. I have taken to writing this day on my calendar, as if I'd forget. This is one of the vestiges of my relationship with my dad. I also kept his phone number in my phone (which is just silly, because his phone number was the phone number I grew up with and is imprinted on my DNA at this point. Keeping it in my phone isn't about remembering the number, of course, since I wouldn't need to use the phone number anyways. It's because taking him out of my phone feels wrong). I can't seem to listen to Dire Straits without laughing and then feeling melancholy. And, I write this date in each year, "Dad's Birthday" in the same way that my calendar is marked for "Rob's birthday" as a reminder to send a card or do whatever I do because I think birthdays are the best (mine, yours, everyone's - love birthdays).
There isn't anywhere to send a card. I can't pick up the phone and call my dad (using the number I've known since I knew there were phone numbers in the world) to say happy birthday. I can't make a plan to celebrate his birthday with him. I can't call my brother and see if he wants to join forces for a lunch, a present, anything. Why is it on my calendar? Because not putting it there makes the day feel even worse to me.
On March 26th, it doesn't matter if I'm working, or if it's the weekend. It doesn't matter if I'm alone, or with people. It doesn't matter if I drive up into the mountains or lie flat on my back on the couch and stare at the open canvass of my ceiling. It doesn't matter if I eat chicken and brussel sprouts or if I try to numb out with some really bad carbs. All I can think of is how, somehow, I was the only person who knew on his last birthday that it was his last birthday.
It was actually a great day, but with my moving cross-country two months later, and him going so severely down hill two months after that, it was the last time I got to do a family celebration of any kind with him. And the fact that it was for him made him that much more excited and pleased. We had a great day, but in a place that was nowhere near the back of my mind, I knew with deep certainty and some not insignificant sense of peace, that there wouldn't be another birthday with him, and that that almost surely meant we had already had our last Thanksgiving, Christmas, . . . I drank a shot with him and my brother and thought, "I hope this day is good enough to count for everything we won't have."
I think that there are days that I tell myself that death is part of life, and that I can live with that. And there are days that I tell not only myself, but others too, that if he hadn't died, we might not have gotten to the place we got to in our relationship . . . that it took to the end for my dad to be really honest, open, and to tell me what he loved about me in a way I believed it. And there are days where I am very relieved that he's not struggling, in pain, or fighting the demons he dealt with long before the cancer.
But I don't ever have those days on March 26th. On this day I am struck that I'm supposed to somehow be ok with 25 years of what can only be described as troubled and dysfunctional love with my dad followed by 2 weeks of him sharing under what can only be described as enormous pressure. On this day I can't help but think how sad it is that he never met his grandchildren, and that he'll never meet my future-and-hypothetical kids. On this day it's a little heartbreaking that he'll never see any of us get married. On this day I remember drinking that shot with him, but I also remember calling my Jewish family the morning after he died to make sure that when they were drinking wine that night on Shabat that they would change the prayer they had been saying for him and not waste it.
I was lucky today to spend the day with a smart, sensitive, interesting 10 year old and all-around cool kid. My friend thinks I gave her 6 hours of not struggling with what to do with him on spring break, but in reality she gave me 6 hours of talking about karma (with a 10 year old!! See, he is REALLY cool), helping him practice photography, getting some sunshine, and comparing thoughts on the pros and cons of being an oldest sibling. But . . . I have to then be at home and face the fact of this day.
Pain is there to keep us safe. And I know, in that way, pain is healthy. But on this day, pain doesn't make a lot of sense to me. I knew Knew KNEW that he was dying (maybe before he did), and I didn't just tell myself I was ok with it, I really was. But on this day, nothing feels exactly right because 4 years ago shots and salads and lazy conversation did have some unexpected rightness.
So, there it is. I have been writing all week, and unable to finish anything because this date has been clouding up a lot of things for me. A friend who also lost her father asked me a couple of months ago, "How long is it normal to grieve?" I said something ostensibly wise about how grief has no set timeline. I said that we all go through life with a collection of people we think we can count on, and when one goes missing, we can't expect that hole to not be a wound, and one that throbs. I told her however she felt her grief and sadness was "normal." And all of that is more easily said than done.
This is it for me. This 24 hours.
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