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One shift, I was walking to the break room or the bathroom or some such and one of my long-time buddies poked her head out of the work room across the small “fork lift avenue”. I went over to see what she wanted.

To say that she was distressed was an understatement. While she was at break earlier that night, sitting in her vehicle, she had witnessed 🟩🟩🟩🟩 and ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ finishing up their break together (I have already discussed how 🟩🟩🟩🟩 was apparently forced to take her break at the same time as her significant other, ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️, or face the consequences).

This friend, I’ll call her for “witness” for consistency with the other blog essay, said, “⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ and 🟩🟩🟩🟩 were getting out of their vehicle after break and they were verbally arguing. He grabbed her arm and she slung her coke (which was in a MCDonald’s-like cup) all over him and herself.” It scared because she had some idea of what I had been experiencing with this female.

So I told her, emphatically, “(W), go to a supervisor. Before he kills her in the parking lot. I’ll go with you.” So took off all her gear and we went to the day shift supervisor, who was already at work. told him what she had witnessed and he wanted her to accompany him to see exactly where it had happened in the parking lot.*

I went back to my room to finish up the day. When the shift ended, I looked for and she was still involved in writing up what she had witnessed. I found out at the beginning of the next shift that HR asked to fill out a police report and agreed. Did HR think they were calling some type of bluff with (W)? They found out when made a statement to a police officer and it was officially documented.

What did management do? Nothing. This type of shenanigans had been going on since these two had got together months ago. Of course, it didn’t start as domestic violence. It started out as romance and she was moved from the other side of the building to the middle after they had been “caught”. When that didn’t solve the problem, management moved her from the middle down to work with me.

How in the world did management put up with this shit? Can you say, “Liability?” Did it never occur to management that they might severely injure each other on the property? Did it never occur to them that they might injure one of us on the property? Did it never occur to management that this could be one of those situations where someone enters the place with a gun? REALLY?

This went on for months and everyone (no exaggeration, I swear) was completely bumfuzzled about how it was allowed to continue. Yes, it affected morale. Yes, people were aware of the forebearance that management exercised. Yes, people knew that one of us would be fired if we even looked liked we had perpetrated any of this nonsense. And it stank. A lot.

*One of the ways management exercised control over us was to tell us time and time again that “there are cameras EVERYWHERE”. Be careful how you walk, what path you take, how you pack product, how you do everything, etc. Because “there are cameras EVERYWHERE”.

So the next morning after the Parking Lot Incident, I went to the day shift supervisor just to see what was going on. I said, “With (W)’s police report plus the parking lot video it shouldn’t take much for management to plainly see that we have a problem here.”

Well, Mr Supervisor made a face like he had sucked on a sour lemon. He made that characteristically corporate sound that we all know (and hear in our nightmares): “ Welllllllll…Ummm…We don’t exactly have a camera out there”.

WHAT? I’M SORRY. SAY THAT AGAIN.

[This letter is highly redacted and edited in order to keep corporate maniacs from suing me. It is the honest truth, exactly as I experienced it. It’s a wonder I’m not in a mental institution somewhere. Seriously.]

Monday, August 12, 2019

Dear [Redacted], 

Although you are aware of most of the egregious events that have occurred with [Redacted], I feel that I must tell you of my personal experience with them and why it is so stressful both mentally and emotionally for me.

I trained 🟩🟩🟩🟩 in 🟦🟦🟦. Although her training time was abbreviated she seemed quite intelligent and totally capable of accomplishing what was expected of her.

Shortly after she started, she began to talk to me, unsolicited, about problems with her boyfriend, ◼️◼️◼️◼️. I patiently listened as she went on and on about how emotionally volatile he was, how generally emotionally unstable he was, how easily angered he was, and how afraid she was of saying or doing anything that might “set him off”. She claimed that he would lay on the floor at home in a fetal position and not be able to get up. 

She claimed that she could not ever be in a clean room [here] with a male alone because ◼️◼️◼️◼️ would become terribly upset. She refused to enter the [quality testing] lab. If a male entered her work room for any reason (quality, maintenance, etc) she would leave the room. 

Also, she stated that he insisted that she go to breaks at the same time as him. It didn’t matter to me what time we went to breaks so I appeased her and let her go whenever she liked. Half the time, she would return from breaks obviously crying. She would tell me that something she said had caused him to yell at her or caused an argument between them.

At this point I considered her a victim of Battered Woman Syndrome and I was more than happy to accommodate whatever she needed in order not to endanger her.

One night, one of machines had been down for maintenance and [supervisor] told me that I was to start the extruder at 3:00AM so that we could pull the product at 3:30.  I told 🟩🟩🟩🟩 that she needed to go to break promptly at 2:00 (her regular time) so that I could go at 2:30 and return in time to start the machine.

She stated that ◼️◼️◼️◼️ was starting a machine and she wasn’t sure what time he would be available to go to break. According to her, he was not returning her texts regarding break so she assumed that he was already upset with her for some reason.*

2:15AM arrived and I told her that I needed to go to break (because she had essentially missed her usual one). She seemed extremely uncomfortable and afraid and said, “Well, what if you go and he becomes available while you’re gone? He’ll be upset.” At this point I set out to solve the problem.

I walked down to whichever machine he was starting. The quality tech was in the room with him. I asked tech to ask ◼️◼️◼️◼️what time he was planning to go to break. He stated that he wasn’t sure. Certain that 🟩🟩🟩🟩would be a victim of his wrath, I told tech to tell ◼️◼️◼️◼️that I was going to break and that if he had a problem with that to come and talk to me.

On passing by 🟩🟩🟩🟩 room, I told her I was going to break (2:25AM).

When I returned from break, 🟩🟩🟩🟩 came over to my room and asked me if I had walked down to ◼️◼️◼️◼️ room and asked him what time he was going to break. I replied that I had. At that time, her face contorted in fear and she took a step back. She stated, “Well now you’ve come between us, Carol! You’ve caused problems for us!” I said, very gently, “🟩🟩🟩🟩, you can’t live this way” as tears came to her eyes and she turned to go to break.

The next morning, I called the National Domestic Violence Hotline to ask them specifically: If this young man was endangering this young woman, if he was seriously emotionally and physically volatile, and if he found out that she had divulged the momentous amount of abuse that was happening between them to me, did they think that I was in danger in the event that he discovered that she had talked to me?

Emphatically, they agreed that should he find out about her having exposed details about their unstable relationship, considering that we both work in the same building and shift, he could be a personal danger to me.

I purchased a dash-cam for my car as it sits in the employee parking lot overnight so that should anyone strike it, hit it, or otherwise vandalize it, there would be video coverage of the incident. Otherwise, I told 🟩🟩🟩🟩 not to talk to me anymore about their relationship under any circumstances.

In a few weeks, their episode in the parking lot manifested**. The witness came to me directly to ask me what to do. Believing that 🟩🟩🟩🟩 was in imminent danger, I advised to talk to [day shift supervisor] immediately and I accompanied to do so. After telling what had seen, [day shif supervisor] arranged to meet in the parking lot to see where it had actually taken place and what saw.

HR came to me the next morning to take a statement. I waited for thirty minutes in the break room and as you know, never took one from me. To this point, I have never been asked to tell them anything about this most stressful situation and how it might be affecting me personally.

On April 10, 2012, my best friend in Memphis, Debbie (Laura) Rowberry, was shot and killed by her husband, Thomas Rowberry, in the parking lot at her workplace. As the police made the scene, her husband fatally shot himself. Needless to say, it was the most extreme time of grief, unbelief and horror not only for me, but for their sons, family, co-workers, and friends. Therefore, I know that these events can and do happen to the utter shock and consternation of everyone involved.

Although I have worked hard to overcome this traumatic event, it is still sometimes very difficult for me and always will be. And the stated events have greatly affected me. This is the statement that Human Resources has not taken and I wanted you to know the truth. 

I intend to continue to perform my work to the best of my ability and I appreciate that you, as my manager, can and will consider what I have experienced.

Sincerely,

[Redacted] (Me)

*We were prohibited from having a cell phone in the work room much less texting our significant other (who would also have possessed a cell phone), correct? Yeah.

**Please see “The Parking Lot Incident”

Early June, 2019: My room is running three extruders, the warehouse is hot, and outdoors is hot. The measured temperature in the room is 76 degrees. At night. I am continually complaining to my Assistant Manager about how hot the room is. When I return home in the morning, I have to let my clothing and underwear dry before putting them in the dirty clothes. They are soaking wet.

Quality Tech, in room, testing samples: Gosh, it’s hot in this room! Does anyone in management know? How do you stand it all night?

Maintenance in the room to do PM: It’s really hot in here! Wonder if anybody can do something about that?

Rinse and repeat day after day after day after day.

Late June, I’m called into Manager’s office.

Manager: Well, I hear that your room is unreasonably hot. 

Me: Sometimes it’s almost unbearable.

Manager: You know, plenty of people work in a 76 degree room. It’s not like you’re working in a coal mine or something!

Me: Ummmm…

In a couple of days, Building Maintenance comes into the room. 

Building Maintenance: We’re here to pull the filters out of the ceiling and clean them. 

Me: God bless you!

In early July, just after July 4th shutdown, Co-worker C and I start “trading rooms” every other week. (The other extruder room is much, much cooler). Co-worker C (who has some magic pull with management due to, well…you figure it out) goes to Manager’s office and complains repeatedly about how hot the room is. I gave up in late June.

A few days later, still early July, Building Maintenance comes into the room.

Building Maintenance: Hey, you know? This room is still hot! Management has decided to purchase an entire compressor just for this room and put it on the roof at the next shutdown! 

Me: Ummmm…

A few weeks later, at the beginning of August, the temperature in the room actually improves by a few degrees. At least it’s survivable. I can actually breathe when it’s my week to work the room. 

Manager drops by the room. 

Manager: I think we solved it. The room seems cooler. 

Me: Yes. It does feel better.

Manager: Guess what it turned out to be? Building Maintenance finally cleaned the filters! 

Me: Ummmm…

OK. This is going to get ugly. So X-out now while you can. And don’t @me. I don’t read comments because I’m already miserable and trying to stay on the razor’s edge with my mental health.

*Exhale*

Exactly when did the older generation (now in their 80’s and upwards) decide that the world owed them something because they worked a third of their lives?

I read an article and I wish I could document it. But it explained that many of the men who joined the service 60 or so years ago did because of several factors.

They lived in rural America. Mom and Dad had multiple children. They barely scratched out a living. The children went without. They didn’t have decent clothing. They didn’t have decent shoes. Many times, they didn’t have enough food to fill their stomachs. Medical care wasn’t even considered. In fact, my father-in-law was brought up this way in Wynne, Arkansas. Outright poverty. And ten children, including TWO sets of twins. Jesus!

So when they were teen-agers, they wisely joined the military. They had a roof over their heads, clothing, a pay check, shoes, medical care. It was a rough trade-off, indeed. It was dangerous. But they were better off – much better off in the SHORT RUN as well as the long run.

Damn, the military would even send them to college to become engineers and other professionals. My God!

And now, they have medical care FOR LIFE. Prescription medicine FOR LIFE. A pay check FOR LIFE. Nice.

Is there anything else these people would like, served on a silver platter?

Yes, my father was one of these. His parents didn’t have multiple children. He was the only one. But he lived in an abusive home in really bad circumstances. His own father didn’t want him to graduate from high school. My paternal grandfather, another piece of work. Damn. Anyway, Dad managed to graduate from high school and joined the Army. And made a career of it.

He married mother, had me, and promptly abandoned both of us. He spent his life in the Army then retired, went to work for a company as a logistics specialist then retired, went to work for a company as a short-distance delivery truck driver (for lumber and building supplies) and, correct, retired. So he has now retired from no less than three different companies.

You think he depends on his corporate health insurance? Don’t be stupid. He depends on his military retirement for everything. Why wouldn’t he?

And he has absolutely nothing to do with me. Never has. I met him face-to-face when I was about six years old. He came to Memphis and stayed for a few days (not to see me – I was an afterthought). Then he was gone. We took up by telephone when I was 30 years old. I would talk to him every Sunday. After about a year, we stopped. I don’t know why. I have been to North Carolina to visit with him and his wife a couple of times. But it isn’t good for him. It just reminds him of where he failed and that doesn’t help me at all. So there’s no reason to torture him.

Mother, on the other hand, was also raised in a very dysfunctional household. Her Dad abandoned the family when she was small. Her brother drowned when she was fifteen. That was pretty much the end of the family. Mother is an extremely mentally ill histrionic narcissist (as was my maternal grandmother).

So neither of these people have fulfilled their responsibilities as far as their daughter, me, is concerned. Train wrecks? Yes, both. And mother thinks the world and I owe her something? That must be nice. I don’t think anyone owes me anything. And it’s a good thing I think that way. Because that’s definitely how it is.

Happy Fathers Day!

Mother’s good friend, Marge, made a big decision. She decided to sell her house here and move to a nice retirement village in Arizona to be near her daughter. So she’s been gone about a month. Marge worked for Walgreens for 30 years so she’s not nearly rich. Can’t be.

Mother talked to Marge today. These days, Marge is out swimming every day and has found a group of people to play cards with. So she’s having the time of her life. After she worked for Walgreens, God knows she deserves it. Bless her. I like Marge a lot. She’s brutal. She’ll look you right in the face and tell you the honest truth. I like people like that because I know I can trust them. I will miss Marge. She’s awesome.

If Mother would go to a retirement home, I would be over the moon. I would run naked into the street and dance around. Jesus it would solve so many problems for me. If Mother wanted to move to freakin’ Arizona to be with Marge, I would be over the moon! I’d be free. She’d be taken care of. God, wouldn’t that be a dream!

I can’t sit around until retirement time and do nothing. I’m sure there are people who would gladly trade places with me. They could play video games or drive around or whatever. Have a roof over their heads, food to eat, lots of leisure time. But I’m miserable.

I could be and should be working to pad out my meager retirement. I stayed home for 15 years to raise a daughter before my husband found someone he like better and divorced me. I don’t have a good work history. Most of my married life I didn’t have to work so I didn’t. I spent my time homemaking and raising a daughter: cooking, decorating, crafting, even cleaning. I love it all.

There are jobs going unfilled because there are so many people on unemployment from Covid and unemployment actually covers realistic living expenses these days. Whereas, anything close to minimum wage does not. It’s not even a reasonable decision for people on unemployment to make. I wouldn’t go to work for less. That would be stupid. And, no, I’m not a millennial. Not even close. Jeez.

No, I wouldn’t be working because of some misguided “work ethic” that people who make over $100,000 a year have. I would be working to try to add some small portion to my retirement at 68 or 69 or never.

But, no. Mother would rather sit in her chair in her living room and be miserable. It’s her perpetual hobby. The fact that she is dragging me down to hell with her doesn’t bother her at all. It doesn’t even give her pause. She believes that she is my legal responsibility and that she doesn’t have to make any decisions (even to have her hair cut) and that she should, by all rights, be completely taken care of. By me.

She treated her Mother, my grandmother, that way. So she could complain about how hard her life was. And Grandmother was an outright terrorist. The entire world owed her something because her son had drowned when he was sixteen. And she became the responsibility of her children. A true demon from hell.

Of course, Grandma didn’t have a pot to piss in. She had nothing. But that was her decision. Just as mother’s decision to sit and be miserable is her decision.

Mother is perfectly capable of making decisions in her own best interest about her care.

I had a talk with mother recently when she was reminding me that “most daughters take care of their mothers”. I said, “OK, I have a daughter. She will ALWAYS be my daughter. That will never change. Even when I’m your age she will still be my daughter. I will be responsible for her until I die. That will never change”.

Fortunately, I’m happy to be partly responsible for my precious daughter. Yes, she’s grown, married, and raising a step-son, working full time, and completing graduate school (and doing a damn fine job of it, also). But to think that she would ever be responsible for my living conditions and decisions? I’d willingly die before I put that responsibility on her. For God’s sake.

What the hell exactly is the problem with this older generation, anyway? OK. I’m starting to get pissed off again. Big time. Because they worked a third of their lives, what exactly do we own them? And why? Someone explain this to me. Tom Brokaw in his book called them “The Greatest Generation”. I call them “The Entitlement Generation”. When I start telling about my experiences working as a pharmacy tech at Walgreens, you’ll get a taste of why I loathe and despise the anarchists of this Entitlement Generation.

So everyday, I’m realizing more and more that I need to make a decision and get myself out of this. I can’t stay here. The world may be on a fatal trajectory. All corporations may be on a suicidal slide. But I still need to do what’s best for me. That’s get the hell out of here. And I have absolutely no one to help me. And I’m scared.

The homesickness never ends.

I left Memphis ten years ago and moved to a small town in Arkansas. So I’m pretty much a war refugee. I miss my hometown. I miss my daughter. I miss my boyfriend. I miss a lot of things in Memphis that don’t exist anymore.

I’m obviously confused.

Yes, it’s safe here. I don’t have to worry about getting out at night. I don’t have to sorry about my car disappearing. I don’t have to worry about my house being broken into. I don’t have to worry about much in the victimization realm.

I just need to get my shit together.

Many years ago, my family walked or rode the bus wherever we went because we couldn’t afford a car. We lived on Barksdale across the street from the Boys’ Club. And we walked midtown. For real.

We walked to PicPac at Union and Cooper to grocery shop. We walked to church at Peabody Baptist at Peabody and LeMaster. We walked to Zayre, which was behind Fred Montesi at Madison Ave and North Avalon – many times just for an outing. We ate at Stoney’s at the Center City Shopping Center.

Midtown was my life. My first job was at McDonald’s on Union Ave at Florence. It had been a vacant lot for many years. There were converted big old houses across Union Ave, one of which was a portrait photography studio. It had large framed portraits in the windows.

When we didn’t go to PicPac, we walked to Seessel’s. It was more expensive than PicPac, but it was much closer and at Seessel’s they let you take the shopping cart home (sign a spiral notebook up front as you left), then they would come by with a van and pick up the shopping cart from the front yard the next day.

Along Union Avenue from Rembert west to Barksdale was (1) The Lamplighter – they had a glass box on the sidewalk with a real lamp burning in it. It was really cool. (2) China Imports – in a big old house set way back off Union Ave. (3) Other old houses that fronted on Union Avenue with businesses in them – one of them a well known Interior Decorating Company (Denaux?).

These houses backed up to the playground at Idlewild Elementary. They had long garages that we could climb the fence on the northeast side of the playground and look into. There were no cars parked in there. Just old worn out wood garages.

I remember when the north-central side of the playground backed up to a forest. There was a space where we put the newspapers when we had a paper drive. I remember when they came in and cut all the trees down to asphalt the entire lot. It devastated me as a child to see all the trees fall. This was the site of the new John T Fisher Motor Company.

Our house backed up to this gargantuan motor company, also. Jesus, it was HUGE. Just tons and tons of asphalt where there had been grass and trees. When we first moved to Barksdale, there was a two-story apartment house next door to the south. Then the Bowen house was next. Apparently, the motor company bought the apartment house, tore it down and asphalted even more property, creating an exit driveway onto Barksdale and a car lot right next door to our house.

So on the walk to Seessel’s were clothing shops, all of which dressed their windows beautifully. To me as a child, it was nothing short of magical. There was The Snooty Fox right on the southwest corner of Union and Idlewild. Another business west of that then The Trousseau. The check out lines in Seessel’s were oriented parallel to Union Ave, as God intended. It was a very busy place. And very nice with the bakery just inside the front door.

Honestly, I’m stuck in the past, I know. There is so little of it left. I just walk along it in my head and enjoy the various sites on the internet that discuss it. But physically, spiritually, culturally, the place I love and crave doesn’t exist anymore. I’m constantly warned by family not to move back to midtown. In my head, I realize that, by and large, it is not where I need to be. But my heart won’t shut up about it. So I guess I’ll walk the streets in Google Maps. And wait for whatever future is ahead.

Hurray for my seven-year career with Buxtard Healthcare. God!

For the final few months, I became very close and good friends with the operator of the machine “next door”. On my other side was a man about my age who was very strange and creepy. However, after talking with him and getting to know him better, I felt better about him.

I would sit at the desk in my room with my giant machine and put testing numbers into a spreadsheet (that was only 10 years old – really good for THIS company). My desk faced the wall and my monitor was in a corner on the wall so that I couldn’t see either to my right or left behind me.

At some point months before I quit, Mr Creepy would walk up quietly behind me and stand behind my chair so closely that if I turned around, I would elbow him. That close. Of course, this always startled and scared me, which he thought was hilariously funny. He verbalized his ability to “sneak up on anything”. Weird, I know.

But you overlook a ton of bullshit from others when you work with them. He would perform his little “sneaking up on” bullshit about every two weeks. The timing varied. After the third time, I told him that I am an abuse survivor and that I was tired of his antics and to please stop.

He continued. After a time of two again, he said, “You know, I think people who are extremely jumpy have something to hide.” I told him, “No. People who are extremely jumpy were beaten by a stepfather in their teens and are afraid of people being too close”.

I did not want to tell him the truth. People are usually very disconcerted by it. But I thought I had nothing to lose and I was tired of his foolishness. He took a break of about two weeks and then did it again.

I went to my assistant supervisor and told him to tell Mr Creepy to stop it because I was tired of it. Now, mind you, this was DURING COVID, when we had been told specifically to try to stay 6-feet from each other, even while using masks. Yeah.

Turns out, he was also harassing my neighbor friend, who was also an abuse survivor. He would scare her to the point where she screamed. And he thought it was just so very funny.

I’m not fooled. It was a sexual thing. Sneaking up behind a female co-worker, standing within breathing distance of her, scaring her when she turns around (power over a female). No doubt in my mind this was a sexual thing. And it creeped me completely out.

After I told my assistant supervisor, I knew he went directly to Mr. Creepy and told him to stop it. Mr Creepy wanted to come over and apologize. I accepted his apology and told him to leave my room and go back to his room. Honestly? The dam had broken and I was furious.

I suspect that my friend-neighbor called another friend of hers to tell her what had happened. My friend-neighbor fought back by trying to scare Mr Creepy, thinking that would cure him of his problem. It didn’t. But she got caught scaring him and it kept her from reporting him because it would look like she was doing the same thing to him.

We had to walk through each other’s rooms to get anywhere unless we left our clean room and disrobed and that was inconvenient so we just breezed through each other’s room to go to the assistant supervisor’s desk if we needed something (a document, for instance). My friend-neighbor’s friend met me in Mr Creepy’s room and, seizing the moment for emphasis, I told her (in front of Mr Creepy) that my boyfriend was coming up and would be up here in about 12 hours. This freaked Mr Creepy completely out. I was glad.

The next day, I spoke to Mr Creepy very shortly but mostly, I stayed away from him. Just before quitting time, word came from the manager that he wanted to speak to me. I couldn’t imagine why this had gone to a manager except to hear my side of it and see just how serious it was.

I didn’t trust this manager to any measure because, honestly, he was a narcissist who enjoyed punishing people and making people uncomfortable with thinking they were going to be fired. Everyone hated him – no exceptions. Apprehensively, I went in and sat down – and, sure enough, he started in on me.

“Did you tell Mr ___ Creepy that your boyfriend was going to come up here?” “Yes”, I replied. “Well, you CAN’T DO THAT, CAROL! THAT’S A THREAT!” I absolutely couldn’t believe it. As much as I despised this poser, I never would have thought he would lecture me after a complaint about a male co-worker. I said, “I wasn’t even talking to him! I was talking to LL! Why? Is he scared?” Mr. Manager said, very concerned, “Yes! He’s scared!”

I said “Good! I’m glad he’s scared! He’s been scaring me for months and I have asked him again and again to stop. Now the shoe’s on the other foot, isn’t it and now he knows what it feel like!” The tables had been turned. He meekly said, “Well, you know I have to hear everyone’s story (although he certainly hadn’t asked to hear mine) – and I have to decide what’s going on.”

I had no idea why this manager had even been involved in this. I had reported it to my assistant manager, and as far as I was concerned, it was taken care of. I couldn’t figure out why Mr Creepy was afraid of my boyfriend unless he had done something wrong – that HE KNEW what he had done was wrong.

During my conversation with the manager, he never asked me what had happened. He never assured me that the problem had been taken care of. He never mentioned what had been done to me. Not one word.

So I assume that what Mr Creepy did to me for months WAS FINE. And that my scaring a creepy old man WAS DEFINITELY NOT FINE. Company policy review, anyone? Heads up!

I submitted my two-week notice by email 6 hours later.

I have two degrees from Memphis State University. I worked hard for both of them. I made major personal sacrifices for both of them. For the first one, I stood in the rain, rode the city bus, and had nothing to wear (and lots of times, went without meals in order to pay bus fare), in order to pay tuition and books. I had to balance and figure out how I was going to make it work.

Nothing has changed. It’s now 40 years later and I’m still trying to figure out how to make everything in my life work and fit. Honestly, I’m exhausted. It never gets easier.

According to my daughter, who I think is correct, my two degrees are so old they’re not even valid anymore. So I can’t hope to get a good job with either of them. I’m out of date, my education is out of date, my experience is out of date.

And, yet, my education manages to work against me. This was especially true at my last job. I worked seven years in medical manufacturing for Buxtard Healthcare.

Management was not happy with my education. But no one ever approached me to ask me if I had plans to move up there. By and large, well, I could actually say “most of the time” there people move up by “recruitment”. That is to say, a supervisor or assistant supervisor approached them and said, “Hey, ever thought about applying for ___________ position? Hmmm. Maybe you should think about it!”

Lo and behold, when application time came up for a position, they got the job. Another example of this workplace is there would be an opening for a position. Say, Q-line’s operator moved to 1st shift. Our assistant supervisor moved one of us into Q-line to train them “until someone could be chosen to replace the one who left”. So that person was now trained for Q-line. When a pplication time came for Q-line, guess who got the job. Yeah, the person who had been chosen and trained “into” the position by the assistant supervisor.

Were applications submitted? Yes. Were people interviewed? Yes. Was the result a foregone conclusion? Yes. Did other workers understand this? Yes.

There were so many complaints to corporate they took the review process away from the little screw-up factory. Did this solve the problem? Of course not! There’s ALWAYS a way to skew the possibilities so that the “choice” one wins.

In fact, when time came for the next person to be chosen and trained for a position, I was skipped over in blown film and the guy that I trained was asked if he wanted the position in Q-line. Guess I was too stupid to consider.

I specifically went to the manager of my department to discuss possibilities for advancement for me. My supervisor was in the room with us at the time. We reached no conclusion. He would not lift the phone to call anyone. In fact, he asked me if I would do an “internship” with the engineering department, since I possess a bachelor’s degree with the word “engineering” in it.

I actually took the time to look up whether I even COULD do an internship. Of course, I couldn’t. Not with this stupid shitty company. You had to have at least one more semester of college left in order to be considered for an internship. .

I can’t tell you how many nights I worked and wondered how in the world I could have ended up where I did. Running machines in a factory in a god-forsaken small town in Arkansas. Jesus. I have failed in so many ways I can’t even begin to enumerate them.

So, yay me. I’m overqualified for most everything unskilled and my degrees have died so I can’t even consider applying for a professional position. I’m dead. Just dead.

I went over to mother’s to do my dreaded daily visit and she met me in the middle of the floor, hands in her customary “drama-Von- Trapp-singing-fashion” and with her faced all scrooched up and whining. So I put her hands down and said “OK, cut the drama and tell me the news.”

She told me that our family friend, DKP, who had suffered from another bout of cancer (this time liver cancer) had died the day before. I was instantly unhappy that she had not told me when she found out the news.

I frequently ask about this family. Mother knows that I like them and am concerned about them. I picked up her cell and found out that they had called her at 1145 this Saturday (06.12.21) morning. She was waiting for me to come over so she could have her drama moment – or she wasn’t going to tell me at all.

There’s no telling what all mother has told these people about me at this point. She’s too stupid to remember what she has said and she’s too stupid to realize that they can tell me what she tells them. But she knows if she can fool me into not taking her to the funeral, it will make me look bad, which is exactly what she wants.

I asked when the funeral would be. She had no idea. So I got on Facebook and found out the details. There would be a graveside at 1400 hours and a memorial at 1530 at D’s church. The daily temps were in the 90’s and I wasn’t willing to go to the graveside.

So I asked mother if she wanted to go. She stopped, looked troubled, and said she thought she probably wouldn’t go. My immediate reaction, which I verbalized was “After all they’ve done for you?” Of course, this was met with the customary victim behavior. “Oh, please stop hacking at me!.” I told her “First of all, grow up. Second of all, I’m going whether you go or not.”

She decided that she would go.

I closed my door the next day at 1445 in order to get her and get to the venue on time, not knowing how crowded it might be. She walked out her door, down the steps, stepped up into the garage, and into the car. She does not have the mobility of someone my age but she certainly doesn’t have trouble with mobility.

When we got to the church, suddenly she lost her mobility. I had to help her get across the parking lot and into the door. She held onto me tightly as we crossed the room to speak to the family. She had miraculously aged 20 years and was wobbling around.

We greeted the grieving family and made our way to our seats in the back. Mother could barely make it. She was unstable and needed help getting the five rows back to our seats. As she turned around to sit, she was wavering and unsteady – like she could fall any direction at any minute.

We got through the service and it was time to leave. I had to physically help her get up from her chair and help her walk across the carpet in an air conditioned building to the front door, out, and across the parking lot.

When we got back home, she miraculously became “healthy” again, got out of the car, across the garage floor, out of the raised threshold, up the porch steps, and into her back door. No problem at all.

I’ve been had – once again – by my mother. As usual, I’m backtracking in my memory to question everything I’ve seen and experienced in order to guess what is true and what is not true. I did see the results of her first fall – the bruising and vomiting.

But of course, I know, as well as the Nurse Practitioner at the doctor’s office, that she did not fall the second time. She did not injure herself on top of her foot. And it did not happen the way she said – if anything happened at all. The second fall was during her episode with shingles and during that mayhem, we found out she had a UTI, which pushed her over the edge into a state even crazier than her usual one.

I came home and began to seriously look at sites on You Tube that offer help and counseling for people with parents who are narcissists. I already belong to a help group on Reddit for ‘/Raised by Narcissists’. I already know what I’m dealing with. I’ve known since I moved here ten years ago.

But now, as I began to watch the videos and listen to the news and advice, my anxiety began to rise. Because they told me a fundamental truth that I know and have been ignoring for years now.

I need to get away from her. There is no healing from a narcissist apart from getting away from them. You simply can’t be exposed to their deadly craziness, being triggered over and over, and not expect to be seriously injured. No one can heal this way.

I am getting rid of possessions as fast as I can so I can travel lightly. The less I have, the better off I will be. Because I am desperate to leave. I know I have to leave.

So now, I’m looking for a job. I’m looking to move. I don’t know how I’m going to do it. I have absolutely no help whatsoever. I only know one thing. I can’t take it anymore.