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| Since I started working here, my perspective on shopping has changed considerably. Suddenly, things no longer cost money, they cost time. A burrito costs fifty-five minutes. My new book? Eighty-three minutes. Movie tickets for two? Two hours and thirty-seven minutes. It is as if a small translator has been implanted in my brain, making every purchase more than just a matter of dollars and cents. I have always been a frugal shopper, hesitant to spend even a dollar more than needed, waging huge mental battles over two pieces of cake only fifty cents different. People would always hate to shop with me. Before, I was merely annoying. Now, I am unbearable. That's right. My trademark indecisiveness is suddenly off the charts. No doubt this recent change makes the experience of shopping with me akin to torture. Those poor doomed fools. It's just that, when everything you buy represents minutes and hours of the lowest-paying, most miserable job you've ever had, you can't help but see everything in a different light, and change as a result. That present for my boyfriend? Is it really worth two hours and nine minutes? And that beautiful dress, the one I have been wanting for the better part of a year? Should I really give twelve hours and eighteen minutes of minimum-wage time to finally have it? Of course, the answers are all yes, because I really love my boyfriend and really want that dress. Even though I already know the answers, I still can't help agonizing over it when it comes to the moment to actually pay the money. The funny thing is, I took this job to be able to pay for those things I wanted. Now, all I want to do is run away and scream, "You can pry this money from my cold dead fingers, you son of a bitch!" | | |
| "Hurry up," I tell my dad after a usual long day of work. "I'm starving." My stomach growls exceptionally loudly in agreement. He looks up at me and laughs. "How on earth can you be hungry? You work in a candy store, for crying out loud!" The customers who come in sometimes ask me the exact same question about why I'm always so hungry while I work. They stare around and see the refrigerators of sodas and shelves filled to the brim with candy and chocolate, no doubt wondering at my self-control. Either that, or they think I'm crazy. In a way, both are right. Simply put, I'm a health food nut. I am a vegetarian obsessed with healthy foods that other people dislike. My idea of a good time is fresh spinach salad, or grilled tofu, or soymilk, or whole grains, or hummus, or tomatoes... I should stop. I'm making myself hungry again. The whole thing constantly brings to mind that old expression that goes, "It's like a kid in a candy store." It's just funny to think about it. I work in a candy store, but the expression does not fit at all. Although so many people would love to be in my position, largely unsupervised in a room full of candy, I can't stand it. I will just sit there for hours, surrounded by candy, and still be completely disinterested. That is not to say that I dislike candy, far from it, I am a huge chocoholic, but I still rarely feel any urge to eat what I sell. I would only much rather be eating a huge spinach salad instead than a candy bar the vast majority of the time. Sometimes I suspect that trait is the reason I am such a good worker here. I have absolutely no urge to steal any of the wares, even though I know I could and get away with it. If we sold health food, that would be a completely different story. If I was working in a health food store, I would be interested and happy to be there, even sneaking a bite here and there, but in a candy store, I find myself constantly bored and miserable. It's a bit sad that what makes me such a good and honest worker is also one of the reasons why I am so miserable at work. The funny thing is, somewhere out there, I know there is a health food store clerk who sits at his counter, day after day, waiting until he can go home and eat a candy bar. As he sits there, he thinks about how much he hates his job, no doubt wishing that he had a chance to take a job at a candy store, not realizing that the girl at the candy store would switch places with him in a heartbeat. Even so, as the only employee in a room full of candy, I just sit there, waiting. Counting the hours, counting the minutes until I can leave this room of candy and get back to my favorite thing. Tofu, anyone? | | |
| Dad walks into the store just a few minutes before eight-thirty, a whole hour before I'm scheduled to close. He strolls in, looking all friendly and says, "How about I offer you fifty bucks for everything in here and you just close up early?" "I wish," I say with a grin. "So, what are you doing here so early?" "I was bored at home, so I decided to just come over here." "Well, if you're bored, how about you take my place here," I suggest, wish it was really that simple. "And I go back home?" He points out that it wouldn't be possible because of my "forgetfulness" regarding all aspects of practicing for a drivers' test that I probably should have taken three years ago. To that, I can't think of anything to say, so I stick out my tongue at him. He asks how I'm liking my job. "I hate it," I reply. "If I had a window, I'd jump out." We chat for a minute, and eventually he shows the shifty, shuffly signs of one who wants to leave. I can't blame him for that; the store is hot, cramped, and very unattractive and uncomfortable. "Well, I'm going to stroll around the mall a bit, stretch my legs, maybe go outside..." I let out a pathetic little whine and mention how much I miss seeing the sun. "What do you mean? You've seen the sun before." "Yeah," I say. "But it hasn't seen much of me lately." He laughs. "But you have a chair, a book, an iPod to listen to...What more could you wish for?" "Oh, I dunno... How about some decent summer memories and some freedom?" He laughs, I smile and groan dramatically, and he turns to leave. "Do you want me to pick up some food for you while I'm out?" "No thanks, I'm not really hungry, but my soul is hungry for freedom." "Sorry," he says. "Fresh out." | | |
| Well, I did end up doing exactly what my parents were worried about. I worked so hard I made myself sick. Last evening, I got a headache that turned into a general bad sick feeling, nearly throwing up. Luckily, now I'm feeling better. All I can say is, thank goodness I have the weekend off. | | |
| I honestly don't know how I've survived. Nobody who reads this has any idea what I've gone through, since I've only written a few entries, which are honestly more like anecdotes and little interesting pieces instead of actual news, which was really my goal in this whole series, after all. However, try as I might, I just can't keep the news from breaking out, and telling you what's really been going on over these past few days. I'm afraid to say, I have been having an incredibly hard time. I have been working for full-day shifts for the past seven days. In fact, today was supposed to be my eighth, but I suppose I was lucky to be able to avoid that full day, which would've been a fate worse than death, which is only a slight exaggeration. You see, I hope nobody judges me too harshly from this, but I have been suffering from depression for a long time, and all the things that go with it, in my case, a tendency to break under stress, and several other things that I cannot bear to write. Since I am a bit paranoid and scared to death of pills like antidepressants, I am lucky that I have not had more breakdowns than I have, but I am frankly ashamed that I did not avoid this one. I know I should not be so mad at myself for this, but I still can't help being angry and upset at myself. After the first few days of twelve hour-long shifts, even my parents could tell that it was taking its toll on me, even though I was trying to hide it and act as if nothing was wrong, aside from the usual little annoying work-related things. I was getting paler, more irratable and silent, and more often refusing offers of food. I was unable to sleep, because as I would drift off, I would have hallucinations that I was still at work and there were customers waiting for me, which would make me jump up, instantly awake. My mother would help once or twice by offering me a sleeping pill, which would result in the only nights I was able to sleep. However, two days ago, the feeble bridge of high spirits I was able to erect underneath me broke. That morning, I had woken from a terribly realistic dream in which I was dying, and when I was at work, my boss had also called to say that I would have to work another twelve-hour day, which I had not asked for. Then, a customer came in, wanting to buy something, and when I told him about the minimum credit card purchase, he told me, "I didn't come here for a fucking attitude," and stormed off, glaring at me. It was then that I snapped. I stood, in shock, for a minute, put away the purchases that he had left on the counter, sat down in my chair, and started to cry. I wasn't able to stop crying for the rest of the day. All the little annoyances built up, and I just couldn't keep them down. I thought about all the things I had been missing out on during my time there, my rabbits, my instruments, my family, my boyfriend, the sun, the fresh air, the feeling of cool grass on bare feet...I would think of all of those things, and the mere thought would get me crying again. I had been at that horrible store from morning until night for the past week and missing out on all the joys of summer in the meantime. I spent that day and the next quite ashamed of myself, trying to stop the tears from coming as things only got worse, trying to distract myself with books and music, but I was having a hard time, finding myself crying more and more, becoming more silent, and regarding every customer who walked in, trying not to notice my tearstained face, with suspicion. I had to face up to it; like it or not, I was having another breakdown. Eventually, my parents caught on and put in a call to my boss to get him to give me time off, which is something that I, being the doormat that I am, probably could not have accomplished on my own, especially in that state. That, dear readers, is how I am here today, able to write. If my boss had his way, I would still be at work for hours yet, and I don't know how I would have made it. I am just now starting to relax, and I can see recovery fast approaching; I'm less tense, less scared, and I am sure that when I go to sleep tonight, I shall sleep soundly, dreaming of neither work nor death. I am sure I have learned something from all this, as I sit here typing. It may be easy to slip into denial and try to convince myself that all is well when it is not. Perhaps this is the incident that I needed to convince myself that I should not be so scared and reluctant about seeking help. Perhaps it is the time to accept that I have these problems, and that accepting it can be the first step to my first sincere attempt at recovery. I hope that none of you judge too harshly me by this. Call me crazy, call me what you will, but at least I can relax knowing that at least I have come to terms with what happened. | | |
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