I spent 7 years of my life working for a games distributor. I worked my way up from a picker in the warehouse to a shipper in the warehouse. From there I worked hard and managed to be promoted to International Sales Representative. From there I learned that being a sales representative wasn’t the best. It was one step removed from retail which meant I still dealt with retail in a way. Day after day I talked to retail store owners. Day after day I listened to them. There were a precious few who talked and treated me as an actual human being. But the rest regarded me as nothing more than a cashier. And perhaps that’s what I was. The other issues were that I couldn’t push product that I had no faith in. In the corporate world of being a distributor this was not good enough. Eventually I lost my heart for my job. I began to despise waking for work every morning. I am an artist and each day I would sit at a computer corresponding with customers through email and phone. Each day I would resent my job for taking up my time and getting in the way of my creative processes. Eventually it was deemed that I was not a good enough rep. When I was asked for my resignation I had to ask myself if being there was where I really wanted to be. No.
For the past few work days I’ve found myself in the confines of a gigantic crank case. Sweating profusely while wiping a mixture of oil, water, and cleaning fluid from the innards of a massive engine. And in the dark confines with nothing but a flashlight to show me where I needed to clean I started thinking. There I was, in a crank case. An artist with a thick coat of dirty motor oil covering his hands and arms. Sweating profusely I would crawl out from time to time to stretch or for breaks. All day I kept thinking while I worked. Kept asking myself what I was doing there. And at the end of the day I asked myself, “Is this where I want to be?”. For some reason I couldn’t answer. It wasn’t as if I were torn. It was more like I just didn’t care enough to answer.
I didn’t go straight home last night. Instead I drove around aimlessly while I thought. I thought about who I was as compared to who I am. And to be honest with myself and everyone, I really hate who I used to be. I barely care for who I am now. I was once told that if you don’t like something then you should change it. Well this trip of self betterment is what that is. But the trip is just so damn long. It actually never ends. And depression or life’s lessons will delay, detour, and waylay you almost every step of the way. During my wandering and self contemplation I pretty much stopped thinking. I just kept driving. After a while I realized that I was driving at close to 100 mph as if on autopilot while weaving through traffic along the highway. I was pretty lucky that I didn’t get into an accident or get pulled over. But for some reason I didn’t care nor was I scared. It didn’t take me long to realize that I had driven to
I turned around and went home. I stopped off at a store to get a DVD. I needed something new to watch. Something interesting. Something to keep me distracted. I needed to drown myself in something other than what I had been thinking about the whole day. I walked in, my clothes splotchy with grime and grease. That’s how I am going to look everyday right after work. I’m sure I looked hideous or reminiscent to a homeless man. I didn’t care. I couldn’t bring myself to care. I caught a few stares as I wandered DVD aisles. The only thing I could return to them were vacant glances as I moved down the aisle. I didn’t find anything interesting. Or rather nothing caught my eye. I went home. Was that where I really wanted to be? It would do for the moment.
I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. I don’t know if I ever knew what I was doing. I’m an artist working a manual labor job for a pipeline company. Am I working there because I like it? I don’t know. Am I working there because of the money? I don’t know. I really don’t know a fucking thing about me or my life anymore! All I know is that I’m an artist who’s hands touch more dirt than pencils. I’m alone and I’m lonely. I don’t know if I really want to be where I’m at. I don’t know how to change it if I wanted to. And sometimes I’m just too apathetic towards myself to even care about changing.
I don’t know if this is depression.
I don’t know if this is some form of apathy.
I just don’t know….
Maybe I’m just being complacent.
And complacency kills. Slowly and painfully it kills.
