On Stuff Supervisors Do That I Just Don't Understand.

We've all been there. 

We've all had that supervisor who causes you to spend most of your time trying to figure out how they ever got bumped to upper management, and you're still only filing papers. Somebody had to have died, right? And in a stunning display of selflessness, your supervisor leaped up to save the company in their hour of dire need, but in his haste, he smacked his head against the copier and instantly turned into the spacey person that you are forced to answer to every day, right?

I choose to believe that is the story behind my supervisor, because any other reason as to why he just doesn't quite reach the bar would make me way too upset over the type of people my company chooses to promote.

I worked for a local trucking company for two and half years.  My department was located in a trailer next to the main building. There were two if these portable buildings next to the main office building, but when the fire marshall took one look at the layout of the trailer to building distance ratio, he advised the company that the whole layout was a huge fire hazard. So the company removed one of the portable buildings to the back of the truck yard to be used as a storage shed. This was for the best considering that our department's trailer didn't have running water, a fire alarm, or even a fire extinguisher.  We did have all of the company's stored documents though, which law dictates we have to keep for 10 years. We were basically fucked if anyone came by our department with a match. With our "new storage shed",  the reject portable could be a fire hazard all unto itself and not endanger any living employees.

My supervisor, who from here on out shall be referred to as Jeff, had asked me and my coworker, Rose, to start "staging" boxes of old files by the back door so that he could load them onto a pallet for our forklift guy to transport across the yard to our portable/storage shed. 

We did as he asked and moved close to thirty, fifty pound Banker Boxes full of old documents by the door. We staged it in a way so that it was easy to push each pile onto a dolly for him to transport. Jeff came back without a dolly and then proceeded to life one box at a time, open the back door, kick the back door closed, climb down the stairs from the portable, and then stick the box on the pallet. He did this for about ten of the boxes and was then stopped by one of our drivers for a chat. During this time, a guy who works for the maintenance shop came by and asked why Jeff didn't come get the hand truck he requested. Clearly we didn't know, so the shop worker sighed and left.

The shop worker came back five minutes later with a hand truck. At this point, Jeff was still out in the yard chatting with a driver. The shop worker let us know that he wiped the dolly off as much as he could, but since it's a shop dolly, it was still super greasy, because apparently grease is the glitter of the shop maintenance world. Like a freaking gentleman, he advised us to keep the dolly on the door mat and load up the boxes up there. We thanked him and he went on his way.

Rose, trying to be one step ahead of our supervisor, put the dolly on the door mat on the inside of the office for when Jeff came back to continue moving boxes. She reasoned that there was no way he could miss the dolly when it was right there in front of him.

She was wrong.

Jeff came back, flung the door open, almost killed himself by tripping over the dolly as he tried to enter the office, righted himself, looked at the dolly, moved it to the side, picked up a box, and hand carried the one box downstairs to the pallet. 

Rose looked distressed that her strategic placement of the dolly had accomplished absolutely nothing. When Jeff came back in to get another box, Rose attempted to talk with him about the hand truck.

Rose: Hey Jeff, the shop brought us this hand truck for you to use so that you'd have an easier time transporting boxes

Jeff: Oh neat! 

Rose: But they warned us that the wheels on it are a bit greasy, so they advised keeping the it on this doormat and loading up the boxes from here. 

Jeff: Oooooh. Okay!

Jeff then took the dolly, pushed it off the doormats, past the pile of boxes we had moved for him, and into the room where we had been storing the boxes previously, leaving a light trail of grease marks in his wake. 

Rose just stood there in shock. I couldn't stop laughing. 

On Dealing With Anxiety, Depression, and the Fact That I Am Now A Blogger

Hello Internet.

So... Hi. How's it been? Long time reader, first time writer.

I don't believe that anyone will actually take any interest in this blog, for that's not really the point of my doing this, but I'm just going to go ahead and write these posts as if you, the Internet, are reading these and taking extreme interest. Okay? Okay.

I've been told by multiple medical professionals over the years to write down my thoughts and feelings as a type of treatment. I'm sure you are aware of the concept of journaling helping with mental illnesses. Well, if I'm going to be writing out all of the weird ass thoughts that cross my mind on a daily basis, I'm definitely going to do it in a public setting. I mean, why the hell not? It's going to be hard to write this all out sometimes, so someone might as well get some entertainment value out of this.

I'm going to use this introductory post to vent some of my problems with my experiences with the health care world I deal with.

(If you want to skip all this back story, scroll down to the AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH mark below.)

I have been dealing with "Acute Depression and Anxiety Disorder" since I was 18, probably even before that, but I wasn't OFFICIALLY diagnosed by that point. Ever since then I have been rotated on and off five different medications, six or more (I've honestly lost count) psychologists and psychiatrists, and told that "It takes time to get over this mental illness. Just keep optimistic." Thanks. I'll try to keep my pessimistic impatience under control.  

Now I know that it takes a while to "get over" depression. I was not, nor am I ever, expecting an overnight fix. However being constantly told "well, you have to be patient, these things take time," is insanely annoying especially when this statement is coming at you from just having answered the question "Which of our exercises did you find you had trouble with this week?" It's like being accused of complaining about a free hair cut someone gave you when you are asked to give constructive feedback about their service. You are grateful as hell for that free haircut (because you are dirt poor in this scenario), but that stylist asked for feedback... and you can't lie to them saying that the uneven bob is totally in this season. You really just wanted a straight cut... but again, grateful as hell for that free haircut. Fantastic. I'm rambling...

Anywho, I have been given countless examples of other patients in my age group and of similar circumstances who have "the same problems" that I do. That statement is usually followed by "You are not alone in your mental disorder. If others in your generation can deal with it, so can you."

Now, I'm going to be generous in saying that this was likely not the EXACT statement that I was told, and I'll even take into account that I was probably over emotional due to the previously stated depression and anxiety disorder. With that said, I have heard this tale of my fellow patients succeeding where I'm clearly failing in some form or another from MULTIPLE medical professionals. Let me tell you, this tactic of comparing patients doesn't work that great. It mostly just makes me feel like a failure at my own mental complexities.

I have faked twice on having "miraculously recovered" because I've been sick of having to be changed from medication to medication and having to put up with side affects that honestly incapacitate me more effectively than my anxiety and depression ever did. I've pretended to be in control of myself just to stop having to tell my doctor that "Yes, I have been practicing the cognitive practices" and "No, I don't feel any different. Yes I tried it more than once. No... I'm not just saying I did them... This isn't like skipping out on the reading for class. I actually do want to get better. Believe it or not, I don't just have heaps of money to throw at you constantly and then NOT do the assigned homework." 

I've become a master at hiding my emotions, my problems, and my reactions. However, as I have learned, and as you may have already figured out, this is insanely unhealthy. All of those reactions that have been pushed down just to get people to leave me alone eventually WILL come out. Unfortunately, they usually come out at or around my boyfriend.... Poor guy. He puts up with so much shit from me, but still sticks around. 

Last week, I finally snapped. I called my current Psychiatrist and told her that I needed to be taken off of medication. I will eat all the kale, fish, and B vitamins she wanted. I would run to California and back, bench press a bull, whatever she wanted as long as it meant that I would not have to be missing my life because I was stuck in bed shaking, crying, or plotting ways to how I could make this all end due to the ridiculous side effects I experienced from the medications they put me on. (Seriously guys, I know how a menopausal woman feels, and I'm 25. I have so much respect for you women in that phase of your life.) Clearly she agreed, gave me a list of essential foods I would need to eat to get the recommended nutrients, essential exercises I needed to do, and told me to check back in a month or earlier as needed. She then abruptly assigned me a new psychologist to talk with on a more regular basis. (Side note: We work with two specialists through my doctors office. I felt the need to clarify that she didn't just say "Wow, okay crazy. Here's some veggies and work outs, and now I'm GTFO of here." She's actually a pretty chill physician and would probably never do something like that. She seems to have way more class than that.)

Are you still with me? This has been a lot of back story. I'm actually going to go up to the top and put a marker for those who want to skip all this back story. Hold please.

(AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH)
(TL:DR - The writer, who has Depression and Anxiety, has learned that medication for treating said conditions don't necessarily work for all people and basically doctors sometimes suck at working with patients with these conditions. Royally.)

However, I met with my new psychologist last Monday, and instead of saying "You worry too much, here have this medication and look at all of these examples of other people like you who have been cured of being such depressed worriers. There is hope for you yet."  He said this:

"You're a bad worrier. I'm going to teach you how to be a good worrier, because we don't want you to stop worrying entirely. Then you might do something stupid like see a bear coming to attack you and NOT be worried enough about your immediate situation to run up the nearest tree. You need to worry enough to run up that tree, but not worry so much that you are concerned that you hurt the bear's feelings in the process."

I loved this answer. He wasn't saying I needed to be "cured" of something. He wasn't even saying there was something "wrong" with me. He was just saying I was bad at the art of worrying and that I can learn to be better, and that was of far more use to me than any combination of medication ever has been.  He now has me being like Arya Stark and listing all of my problems and worries before bed and making note of the ones that I can and can not do anything about. (But not murdering them. That's where the comparison between Arya and I end. I DON'T want to kill people, nor was I recommended to. I just need to make that clear. Honestly I'm really not being like Arya Stark at all. It was a bad comparison.)

The verdict is still out on this specific psychologist since we've only had one meeting. I say his odds are good though, considering that he is the first person who wants to work with me in "learning to live" with my depression and anxiety, instead of "curing" me. I like the idea that I don't need to be cured, just taught how to find balance with myself.

I think as much as people who have depression and anxiety and other mental illnesses want to know that there are others dealing with their same afflictions, I know I for one always just wanted to hear someone say "Wow, you're specific problems are really shitty. I've never met someone with the EXACT same problems that you have. But, I do know these other people who have their own shitty unique problems. You all may be able to relate, would you like to talk with them?"

I'm not saying that I want to be coddled or patted on the head for not giving up on myself by now, but just having someone acknowledge that my problems are uniquely mine and that I will not be compared to others who totally DON'T have the same problems I do, helps ease the shittiness of dealing with this whole mess. And trust me, feeling possessive of your shitty problems is a very weird ass feeling, but I live off it. They may be shitty problems, but they're MY shitty problems. Your problems are just as shitty, but they are uniquely yours. All of our problems may be similar in form, but they are definitely not the same, nor do I think they should they be treated as such. I do think that we should still share our problems with each other. Think of all the fascinating stories we would all miss out on if we didn't!

Yep, so that's my introduction into my blogging. This should be fun.

Also, just to add more randomness to this post, here is a photo of my cat "helping" me try to beat my boyfriend at Dead or Alive 5.

Till next time.