For so long, I’ve debated this, days, months, actually…from the beginning. A year has come and gone, and I’m ready.
The life of cubicle has gradually grown more tiresome, what is forty hours of my life a week feels so much more. My body shows it. My friends see my tired eyes, my mind that never stays in focus, as if the auto mode is on. And everyday feels like that place is my dream state, I am never fully awake, never impassioned by what I do. Such the automaton I’ve become, merely fingers in motion on a keyboard, a paper pusher.
My disdain is festering. Always blunt by nature, but now I am letting my tact and empathy fade. I tell the one person I shouldn’t everything. I yell to him, vent in his office, ask why must I be all these people’s shit catcher? And that is what I feel like, the catcher at the mound having shit flung at me, with a love note saying fix it. I am told I’m not productive, a term used in the sense that ‘do I make money for the store?’ No, I do not up-sell people, ask them to purchase a car, estimate the cost of bodily damages to vehicles, and because of that, it is my job to clean up ‘productive’ workers’ slack, to hunt for the money they setup for us to receive but we never did because of people who failed to fax, mail, call, get authorizations, run a credit card and so on. And now, I help my fellow ‘unproductive’ accounting clerks, when they fail to accomplish their ‘unproductive’ duties. Help clean up receivable accounts, harass corporations for money owed, analyze schedules not my own to find problems and fix them…that is what I do…yet my title is merely ‘Administrative Assistant.’
At work, an elementary bulletin board was taped up, all accounting schedules assigned to particular clerks, and each week we are to initial a box for each assigned schedule. This indicates each of us have looked them over, aka done our job, and have made our boss aware of problems. This insulted me, a big yellow poster board, color coded blocks with my name beside them, I refused to sign it and still haven’t after three weeks. Practically scathing, I told my boss if we were going back to kindergarten then I wanted nap time back, or how about getting little star stickers to put up there when someone does a FANTASTIC job. I told him if he didn’t trust me to do my job, then I shouldn’t be there. Write me up for insubordination, I don’t care. Fire me, I said, and I’ll gladly stand in the unemployment line and take a check made with your tax money. Yes, I say this all to him, to his face, looking him in the eye. I have no reason to hide or be mute.
Just this morning, a sales manager walks in giving me paperwork and asking if the other paperwork is ready to send to a dealership. Yes, but they owe us money, I’m not giving it to them. Just give me the damn paperwork. Their guy is here. No, I don’t care. It’s their trade, and we need a check for the car. He huffs, Priscilla, just give me the fucking stuff. His tone alone just made me flip. And I responded with something along the lines of “What the hell did I just tell you? No! They’ll get their shit when we get our money. It’s easier to get what you need out of people when you haven’t given them the title to the car they’re buying!”
And in the adult world, I never thought it, never imagined, the extensive amount of blaming other people for your own inability to do your job. NEVER. This one co-worker in another department is given a new task, and for fifteen minutes he’s telling me how it’s several other people’s fault why he hasn’t done what he’s supposed to be doing. Finally, I just stopped him, and said, “Just stop! Do not play victim! At the end of the day, regardless of other people, it is your responsibility. If no one tells you why there’s a problem, you go ask them, if they don’t know, you keep digging until you find the reason for the fucking problem and fix it. Be accountable!” And his face at my reaction, he just looked like a baby deer that had been shot, and it didn’t bother me that I had said those things, the look of injury on his face I was and still am completely desensitized to. This is what I’m becoming?!
I have to leave. I have to find an out. My job was to fix the problems, clean up the messes, but now I am just a crutch for dozens of people I can no longer carry.
I am tired. I am irate. I am on the verge of verbally berating all these people until they feel so useless, so stupid, so inferior that I will have become the one person I vowed not to…my boss.
My creative mind is tired, unhealthy due to the lack of care and dedication I am able to put into my art, my writing, the things that are my life chord. My anxiety is getting worse. My insomnia is returning. My hair is falling out again like it did the last semester in college.
It’s time my cubicle fell apart. And if it soon doesn’t, I’m going to take a bat to it and make sure no one after me will have to sit in that same corporate prison, that soul suffocater, and witness these precious years of life, these opportunities to rise up, be squandered in such a hallowed place.