Healing the scars

It’s been almost a year since I got out.

Interestingly enough, I haven’t thought much of that job in the last eleven months. In passing, here and there maybe. Usually accompanied by cold shutter and a scorching pain while my mind works overtime to push out the memories. I haven’t even been able to write about it until now.

It was this time last year that I accepted my current job and knew that I would eventually be free. Free!

I totally relate to those two journalists that were held captive in a North Korean work camp until Bill Clinton saved them. I was probably happier to escape than they were. I should email them to see if they would be into starting a support group or something.

I only have six more months to figure out how to get on Oprah after all.

Looking back now I realize my behavior during that last month when I had given my notice, but still technically worked there, was maybe a wee bit inappropriate.

I regularly left at 3:00 in the afternoon to go drinking. And told them I was leaving to go drinking.

For the obligatory $10 staff mystery gift exchange I wrapped up a photo of myself in a $10 picture frame and signed it “Merry Fucking Christmas”

Seriously – I’m not even making that up.

My coworkers were cool though. I consider them more ‘war buddies’ than ex-coworkers. No one who hasn’t experienced what we went through it could ever really get it.

The admin assistant was a scrappy chain smoker who is a dead ringer for Flo from the old TV show Alice. I totally regret not getting her to say, “Kiss my grits!” even once while I was there.

The Director was probably the most abused, and I’m pretty sure she has PTSD now. She stopped working there about six months ago and now just stays home, bakes bread and drinks.

The Community Investment Coordinator swore more than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. She could work the word ‘fuck’ into every sentence she uttered. Hearing her speak was a masterful arrangement of vulgarity at its finest.

I’ve been thinking about that brief period in my life a lot lately. I believe it is because I am far enough away from it now to appreciate the lessons I learned from my nine months at the worst job ever.

Only really glamorous skinny people can pull off dressing like they are in an episode of Sex and the City. When I do it, I look like an asshole. And I have to change into regular shoes after about an hour. Tops.

When one person is the world’s most colossal bitch complete with a massive inferiority complex, a drinking problem and a grudge to settle…. it makes it impossible to foster positive working relationships.

Yoga pants are not a good wardrobe choice for a professional meeting. Nobody with camel toe is ever taken seriously.

And I will never, ever, ever, EVER work there again.

EVER.