mindpollution.org

It’s a very peculiar feeling to be unemployed. I’ve always had a full-time “something,” be it a job or school or itinerary of some sort. There was always something that required my efforts on an ongoing basis, waiting for me the next day or the following week. Looking back, I think the closest I’ve come to having nothing to do is the short, post-college period of time when I traveled across the country. All I had was a jeep, a stack of books by Jack Kerouac and the proceeds from a dozen savings bonds I cashed in just a week after graduation. Now, so many years later, I have gray hairs, a foreign sedan, a portfolio of published writing and a savings account. I know it’s more, but without something to do - some motivating factor - it feels like so much less.

I have a horrible knot in my chest these days. I can’t get rid of it. It lies just above my stomach where each side of my rib cage meets in the center, and it gets a little worse every day. I don’t sleep much anymore. I lie awake thinking about all of the things I could be doing to find a job and I worry that I’m wasting valuable time that would be better spent writing cover letters and pitches or surfing sites like journalismjobs.com or mediabistro. I think what hurts the most is the knowledge that I was doing well at my last job. I received a big raise just a few months earlier, and it felt as if the idealism people mocked me for (always acting as if the harder I worked, the better I felt) might actually have some merit. Things were going well - well enough for me to feel as if I could take a vacation and relax, and then…

“It’s rough all over,” people keep telling me. They tell me this via Instant Message while they’re on their lunch breaks. It makes that knot in my chest tighten up, and then it gets a little worse when they ask me how the job hunt is going. I give them the update. I tell them how I’m sending out pitches and resumes by the dozen, and how I receive a bite every now and then, but I’m disappointed when there’s no follow-up. What I don’t tell them about are the questions. The lingering, nagging questions that layer themselves upon the knot in my chest and make it larger, more painful - layer by layer. “Did I make a mistake?” … “Is there something more I can do?” … “Why don’t I ever hear back?” It’s sad, really - like the period after a romantic relationship has ended suddenly and unexpectedly, and you agonize over everything that led to this point and where your next step takes you. It’s a touch of bitterness mixed with pangs of uncertainty. It’s torture via introspection. It’s all of these things and so many more - but at the same time, it’s empty… like my schedule.