Used to be
It’s been a year since I was stopped from working. A year when I have worked to redefine myself and find meaning in a confusing world. I haven’t. I’d like to pretend that I have but…
So a year ago when I dropped off my certificate saying that I would not be working, I was probably one of the few people who expected that I would be here this year — I had said to my doctor that my goal was to be travelling for my birthday this year. He was diplomatic but not too optimistic.
As I’ve documented elsewhere, it hasn’t been an easy year. Giving up my identity as a public servant was not something that I had expected for a while yet, and ending my working time abruptly was difficult. Balancing my sudden liberty with my treatments was also not enjoyable. As my strength returned, my frustrations also grew. It’s been hard, but I had to admit that my capacity for work is not where it used to be; that I cannot manage anything like a full day’s work, and I definitely can’t handle a week’s worth of commuting. As for teleworking, unless I’m doing piecework with no set deadline, I can’t really manage that either. I miss having the interactions with people, having the routine of work and the challenges of an office environment. I’m frustrated at my body and its limitations.
I feel like a “used to be.” When I’m asked what I do, my thoughts are that I used to be a public servant. That I used to be a project manager, a policy analyst, a community activist... that I used to be a fully functioning, competent, capable and contributing member of society. Instead of someone who can do “one big thing” a day, and who needs to rest when putting away laundry.
This week, the impact of the anniversary hit me hard, and I was very depressed for several days. Someone had called me for support, and I listened to them telling me that they couldn’t make up their mind about which job they should pursue, and how they could supplement their income after retirement in a few years... I went home and cried, because I felt completely useless. I tried to remind myself that it’s been only a few months since my treatment ended, and that I should be gentle with myself... but I couldn’t break the sadness. I found myself thinking that I had made a mistake by continuing to fight, that I should have just ended treatment and allowed myself to deteriorate. It wasn’t my friend’s fault; but that conversation haunted me more than usual. It reminded me that I used to be making plans and seeking out job opportunities, thinking of where I could contribute my time and energy. Several people keep saying that I should volunteer... but there are almost no volunteer opportunities for people who can’t commit to regular times. I used to be involved in all sorts of community activities, to be active with many groups...
This week hasn’t been great. There were some good points, like dinner with a small group of energetic friends and a walk through a park with another persistent and loving one who called and declared that she was coming to get me. Those reminded me that perhaps I wasn’t completely done and that maybe I was still — marginally — useful. It’s difficult to remain optimistic all the time, and surprisingly I’m depressed more often than I used to be. Things that usually work to break negative thoughts were unsuccessful this week, but I’m still working on finding my centre. I don’t know how to answer the question, “what do you do?” Nor “So what are your plans?” Maybe I will stop trying to find an easy answer, and instead just admit that I used to be someone.
So a year ago when I dropped off my certificate saying that I would not be working, I was probably one of the few people who expected that I would be here this year — I had said to my doctor that my goal was to be travelling for my birthday this year. He was diplomatic but not too optimistic.
As I’ve documented elsewhere, it hasn’t been an easy year. Giving up my identity as a public servant was not something that I had expected for a while yet, and ending my working time abruptly was difficult. Balancing my sudden liberty with my treatments was also not enjoyable. As my strength returned, my frustrations also grew. It’s been hard, but I had to admit that my capacity for work is not where it used to be; that I cannot manage anything like a full day’s work, and I definitely can’t handle a week’s worth of commuting. As for teleworking, unless I’m doing piecework with no set deadline, I can’t really manage that either. I miss having the interactions with people, having the routine of work and the challenges of an office environment. I’m frustrated at my body and its limitations.
I feel like a “used to be.” When I’m asked what I do, my thoughts are that I used to be a public servant. That I used to be a project manager, a policy analyst, a community activist... that I used to be a fully functioning, competent, capable and contributing member of society. Instead of someone who can do “one big thing” a day, and who needs to rest when putting away laundry.
This week, the impact of the anniversary hit me hard, and I was very depressed for several days. Someone had called me for support, and I listened to them telling me that they couldn’t make up their mind about which job they should pursue, and how they could supplement their income after retirement in a few years... I went home and cried, because I felt completely useless. I tried to remind myself that it’s been only a few months since my treatment ended, and that I should be gentle with myself... but I couldn’t break the sadness. I found myself thinking that I had made a mistake by continuing to fight, that I should have just ended treatment and allowed myself to deteriorate. It wasn’t my friend’s fault; but that conversation haunted me more than usual. It reminded me that I used to be making plans and seeking out job opportunities, thinking of where I could contribute my time and energy. Several people keep saying that I should volunteer... but there are almost no volunteer opportunities for people who can’t commit to regular times. I used to be involved in all sorts of community activities, to be active with many groups...
This week hasn’t been great. There were some good points, like dinner with a small group of energetic friends and a walk through a park with another persistent and loving one who called and declared that she was coming to get me. Those reminded me that perhaps I wasn’t completely done and that maybe I was still — marginally — useful. It’s difficult to remain optimistic all the time, and surprisingly I’m depressed more often than I used to be. Things that usually work to break negative thoughts were unsuccessful this week, but I’m still working on finding my centre. I don’t know how to answer the question, “what do you do?” Nor “So what are your plans?” Maybe I will stop trying to find an easy answer, and instead just admit that I used to be someone.
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