I always wondered why my Canadian cousins called garnering unemployment, “living on the dole.” Now I know. Living on the dole dates back to World War I, a term that refers to doling out charitable gifts of food or money.
I always wondered why my Canadian cousins called garnering unemployment, “living on the dole.” Now I know. Living on the dole dates back to World War I, a term that refers to doling out charitable gifts of food or money.
When my hours here were cut to half-time in November I became eligible for unemployment benefits. Not surprisingly, the combination of the cut and the holidays threw me into a gigantic funk. For the first time I considered skipping a week writing “Being There,” then realized I couldn’t call it “Being There” and not “be there.”
That said, reader beware.
If this were a prescription drug it’d include a warning label: “Avoid prolonged exposure to belly aching. May cause anxiety, drowsiness, hives, eye rolling, mood swings, head scratching or irritability. Should side effects persist, consult your therapist.”
As I’ve reevaluated my schedule these past six weeks, two feelings collide: Excitement and failure. The prospect of reinventing myself as both artist and writer was predominant at first. In a previous life I had worked as a ceramic artist in San Diego. Three days after receiving the news of the cutback an opportunity arose: A friend liquidating her ceramics studio sold me all the equipment necessary to get rolling in clay again.
Surely it was a sign. I would reclaim my former life I told myself. At the same time I would seek a position where I would work as a contributing editor and writer from home.
Ideas are narcotic. There’s a juicy buzz before the mind tallies all the mental and physical labor required to achieve the goal. I rode that wave of potentiality for about three weeks before my ego realized what was happening. On the periphery of my vision crept an unsettling realization: I am completely expendable.
The mountain before me suddenly grew by kilometers. First there’s fulfilling the commitment to seek work: Update the resume, write, rewrite, revise, rewrite again, each cover letter specific to the market; choose appropriate writing samples; address, lick and mail envelopes. Second on the to-do list is the design and construction of a potter’s studio, a list too long to recite here.
Add to these the record keeping and weekly calls to unemployment and the required catalogue of job contacts, and well, it’s downright depressing. I can tell myself over and over that I paid into this system for 31 years and by golly, that’s “my” money, and it doesn’t matter; being on the dole unhinges self-confidence.
Not only that, (you can stop reading at any time to ring you shrink) but looking for work on the Mainland feels counter to the life I am crafting here. Even though my intent is to work from home, casting a net as far as New York and Florida frightens me.
I tell myself, “Count your blessings. Unemployment has improved your record keeping ability. You’re lucky to have an income at all. Rejoice, you actually have time to market yourself.”
All these affirmations turn to white noise as the voice of my inferiority drowns them out with insults.
Job hunting really is hunting. It requires stamina, cunning, observation, ruthlessness and a large measure of patience.
It’s only been six weeks and I am sure I’ll find my stride. Meanwhile I’ll dream myself bigger and better into my next incarnation.
I think I’ll go eat a banana.
• Pam Woolway is the lifestyle writer at The Garden Island. Her column “Being there” appears every other week.
