2 

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I wonder if anyone… anyone who sits on their couch after a long day of work with their show of choice blasting and their people of choice lounging. I wonder if any of them says to themselves “I’m really glad I cut off that car earlier today. It saved me so much time.”

So before we get started let me state clearly once again that i’m not going to do it, So save your self righteous need to make a call to check on my welfare, i’m fine. Just like you. You’re fine, right?

Don’t make that fucking call that would put me in grippy socks and zombie meds that aren’t even worth the side effects. The time spent i think is 3-9 days or something like that. Do you think i’ll still have a job? Will matzoh be ok? No to both. 

I also just don’t want to. 

Spare me from the needles and fluorescent lights. I promise you that after those 3-9 days, nothing will have been accomplished and there will be no story of survival. There will be no phoenix.. We all know i’ve done that enough. 

It would be messy, and selfish only because i have a lot of piles of clothes and drawers of girly junk. I have books filled with sad words that you might choose to crack open just to understand the why behind it all. I don’t want you to have to pack it all up, throw it away and have to figure out which parts of myself you want to keep to remember that i once gave a shit. 

Allow me to save you the time. 

Don’t message me, don’t call me or text… don’t make a stupid fucking call to ruin my life for a week. I’m not going to kill myself. If you need reassurance, just scroll up and take it from the top. 

What’s insane. What gets me, truly, is that there is no reason. No purpose for it all. I have asked so many people and their contrived answers billow like smoke. None of them hit. None of them stick. 

What does make sense, though… what makes sense to me is the answer to my very own question. What the fuck is the purpose?

Same alarm, shower, makeup, shoes, traffic etc. The coffee is never just slightly better and that bitch you pass by before sitting at your tiny designated space every day for 8 hours? Yeah, that bitch never smiles at you. There isn’t a day when you are surprised by joy. Well, ok before you give me the bullshit about the memories you have of surprise parties and nights on some cruise, thats all they are. Moments. For the most part, it’s this shit. The only surprises that exist are ones that end in blue pills to numb the terror of it all. 

Allow me to simplify: 

All this shit is and what it comes down to is irrefutable. 

You live the same day over and over again. At least for 5 of them. 

You have moments of joy. Tiny pockets of laughter, whatever.

For the most part, though, it’s bullshit. 

Dishes and laundry and that stupid fucking thing you forgot to do and now have to pay for. 

The repetition of monotony and the frequency of anxiety far exceeds your memory of pina coladas. 

I hope that’s not the case for you. I’m certainly not trying to convince. This isn’t a cry for help… my god don’t fucking help me. I’m fine. You are too, right? 

I just want to be able to put the words down somewhere that will stay. Somewhere that they will matter. Even if they only matter to the space they take up on the page, i’m good. 

2. That was what I got on my work performance evaluation. I am the hardest and most dedicated worker I know. I got a 2. A 2. With a side of an explanation I won't remember because the ringing in my ears was too loud. My worth and work based on what? A bulleted list that was barely contrived of tiny mistakes i would have gladly fixed if given the eraser, or told about. 2. Maybe because you feel that in your own way, you did tell me…warn me… say to me “rachel, your worth is going to plummet if you get this spreadsheet wrong again.” 

I expressed devastation only after the call ended. And i’m sure you have some words of motivation. Some bible verse or self help quote that will take up only the time it will take to read it. I know you have something…

Of course you do. 

Furthermore-

I don’t expect anyone to be thinking about that moment but me. To carry the weight of confirmed worthlessness once again. I, uhmmm… I am bothered. I am more bothered than most but i dont think that matters. I do think that i will still work just as hard. That my broken fucking heart over a small number will exist throughout each day. Not to motivate me or help me truly to improve myself. My grammar or excel skills. The stammer that happens when i present is just too loud and lasts too long for the consideration of meeting anyones expectations. A list of ways that would have made me adequate slide down the page with bullets. (ironic, no?) Right, the issues and tiny nuances are too much, not enough, or not there at all. Certainly not for a 3 

A 3 is out of reach and anything beyond that is hilarious. 

3 translates to ‘meets expectations’ 

I swear to fucking god thats what the paper says. 

The paper that doesn’t even fucking exist! It’s on a screen in a folder on a drive that nobody wants to take. 

The drive that is. 

You know what kills me? (irony once more) truly though, if someone from my job reads this, they will in fact have to print it out. It will matter far more than the page telling me i’m not enough. This one.. The page you are reading, it will be printed and handed to a woman in an office in a corner with framed grandchildren on her desk. There will be words spoken between the printer and the printee. “I am concerned” I know that phrase will be said. I know a conversation will be had between two women. It will last just a minute or two longer than it needs to. Women like to talk. They like to gossip and be heard. I want to be heard too, so i get it. No judgement. If i had the chance to read someone elses insanity and whisper back and forth to another woman about it, i would enjoy it. These women, neither of them know me. They are reading my last name for the first time. My first name having been spoken in passing or as an introduction on a Teams call. You know the one, the call that I presented that slide? The one that I stuttered through and earned me that oh so lovely and special 2. 

More information will be gathered… emergency contacts and such. The hotline will be called and i will be gingerly asked by one of said women to come with them once again with great concern. 

Fuck, why am i playing this scenario out? For either one of us? I don’t even have the right shit to numb me to finality with. I don’t own a gun and jumping off of anything …well, i have a fear of heights. (cmon, that’s funny!) 

I talk about this shit a lot. Like all the time. It doesn’t consume me, but rather serves as a reminder that while most things are bullshit, there are a few things that make sense. This makes sense. It does to me, at least. 

Lol. The job that gave me a 2 will send flowers and condolences. The bitch… you know the one. She will shed several tears into several kleenex. She’ll get the day off, too. Honestly, do you babe. 

I didn’t know this would take me down the road of small numbers today but i knew that there was something. 

The guy, the one who cut me off… i really wonder about his joy right now. Like, what is he doing? I don’t think that people who do bad shit are all terrible. He could be a fantastic example of a father, or teacher. In that moment, he swerved in front of me and now, i’m curious. I do know one thing… he won’t think about it again. 

I won’t either.