Added: Emili Sides - Date: 15.03.2022 08:12 - Views: 49059 - Clicks: 3710
Fuck work. Fuck my job. Fuck all jobs, but fuck mine in particular.
That being said, if any of the participants are found using in the shelter or carrying any sort of paraphernalia even alcohol and marijuana which are both legal for use by adults in Oregon we are supposed to exclude them from the shelter for 30 to 90 days, which obviously sucks. We do have some of those bright red sharps containers to put needles in, but because of the punitive nature of our drug use policies, participants have to just sort of leave their needles around for others to find them which, yes, is potentially very dangerous in order to actually use these boxes, particularly because, rather than being mounted, are kept behind locked doors presumably because the management has all but abandoned the shelter and has yet to mount them, because they fear that mounting sharps disposal containers around the shelter will send the wrong message and encourage drug use within the shelter, or because a lot of the participants are in recovery and seeing the refuse of hard drug usage might damage their recovery process.
In any case, about women come in nightly to find a safer place to be than outside. Some of them are incredibly obnoxious: particularly the ones who love to snitch on everyone else. Go back to bed. Some pass through the place like little ghosts.
They hardly say a word. A lot of the time, this is the working crowd. Aaaaaaand some really endear themselves to you.
I work the graveyard shift which I mentioned should be renamed after staff found one lady dead in the morning a couple months ago which creates an interesting dynamic where the participants I get to know best are usually the the addicts who stay up all night or the more general trouble-makers who I find myself talking to a lot just to prevent them from waking everyone else up. Almost none of the above are morning people. The shelter itself is basically just one big room Gucci Gucci with a bunch of newly-acquired beds in it.
Before the beds, there were just old, disgusting, urine-soaked mats of a much lower quality than you would expect to find in a jailhouse. Ever clean human shit off the wall with a diaper and windex?
I have. The building itself actually seems to be coming apart at the seams. It was rented out to our agency by another nonprofit. When I first got this job, I was actually really stoked. That was rad. When I first started working here, our program was only supposed to be a temporary shelter for the winter months. Firstly, there was a regime change.
At the time I remember it seeming totally crazy that one coworker of mine, whose only downfall was really giving a shit about his job, had to work five overnights a week for like a month. Times change however, and what seemed totally insane and unhealthy back then rapidly became the norm.
The length of shifts dropped from ten hours to eight and all of us were expected to work five nights a week, meaning that we had to work substantially more for really about the same amount of pay. Originally, the new boss asked us what we wanted our schedules to be like. This major drop in working conditions was accompanied by our admission into the union which, as a cynical former leftist, I found sort of grimly amusing. When you get home from work at aboutyou have to sleep until at least to live anything resembling a healthy life. In addition, the work that I do all night involves a lot of emotional work and regulation for myself and others both participants and coworkers as we experience and process some really fucked up shit together.
This makes me feel pretty bad. Going through a bout of depression like this makes it harder to sleep or go out and spend I just want a fuck job with the people I want to spend time with. Which makes maintaining my energy levels more difficult which makes me more depressed and so on ad literal nauseum. It is important to me to have a social life. Moreover, much of said social life takes place well into the late night, when I have the energy for it at all. Only, I have to be at work at Luckily, I work Sun-Thurs so I more or less have the weekends off.
Wanna go to a dance party tonight? Of course I do! They ask what I do, and I just want a fuck job tell them. I hate work. One of my coworkers makes a habit of assuring me at least once a week that we have it really good. I make more than minimum wage and spend a healthy part of my shift watching T. On the other hand, it hardly surprises me that the coworker telling me how good I have it is the same one that a lot of the ladies dislike and complain about.
It is precisely the sociality of this work however, that makes it challenging. For those of us who have built up what feel like real, genuine relationships with these people, it starts looking a lot more like people we know, care about, or even love are being deprived of vital resources for survival, or beaten up by their boyfriends and husbands, or being arrested, or being stolen from, or having their kids taken away, or dying out on the street with no next of kin, or….
Am I being overly-dramatic? Excuse you. You know what though? I came here to make money. There is no cause but food in the belly. This bears restating. I am obliged to care, however grudgingly, and not out of some misplaced notion of goodness or some stupid idea about making the world better place or anything, but because five nights a week, I am here, in a room with somebody and because I relate to them in some real way.
Of course, some people have to make something political before they can force themselves to give a fuck about it. Honestly, I just like a lot of these people. Maybe they remind me of someone. I get paid to show up. Suddenly, a participant sticks their head in the office door. I sigh as I pause my movie. Stupidly, childishly, my heart sinks. The towels are across the building behind a locked door. Why do I keep doing more? For fucking free? Fuck that.
One of my former coworkers was telling me about how working here made it impossible for her to actually listen to people who were talking to her. She said that she found herself tuning out in her daily life when her friends and partners or whoever would want to talk about their lives or work. I can relate. They can be trivial, banal, wandering, sprawling, spurting, funny, boring, incredibly offensive, heart-wrenching, infuriating, annoying or just plain pointless.
If I were a smarter person, I could write an essay on the many forms of narrative structure.
Listening to so many stories or complaints—oh my god, so many complaints—sort of wears down my mental faculties. Eventually, all I hear is a higher-pitched, tweaked-out version of the teacher from Charlie Brown. Like I said, why work for free?
When my partner starts telling me about their day, I really want to be able to listen. This is of course a problem that working people have faced as long as work has existed. Like, super mad. Like, bruh, I read the news. Oregon and Washington and California, again are fucking on fire. The ice caps are melting, bees are disappearing??? And I have to spend my time before then sitting around at work handing out cups of noodles and listening to so many I just want a fuck job about gendered violence that they start sounding like madlibs where only the names, dates and places have been changed?
Current social work student here. You write very well. Good read. Hang in there. Ever try meditating? It helps me. Keeping it I freaking love this post. Everybody wants to save the world. And on top of that, I love this writing style. I think you would be an incredible writer instead. You have a knack for it. Yes oh my god. Hang in there or whatever…. Notify me of new posts by. For those of us who have built up what feel like real, genuine relationships with these people, it starts looking a lot more like people we know, care about, or even love are being deprived of vital resources for survival, or beaten up by their boyfriends and husbands, or being arrested, or being stolen from, or having their kids taken away, or dying out on the street with no next of kin, or… Am I being overly-dramatic?
Anyway, fuck work. Kavin October 14, Thank u Post a Reply. Michael December 8, Post a Reply. Carlos January 21, I want to work fuck Post a Reply. Audrey January 20, Thank you for taking the time to write this. It resonated genuinely Post a Reply. Hang in there or whatever… Post a Reply. Peer Advocate May 16, Fuck My Job. Fuck All Jobs. But Fuck Mine in Particular.
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Seriously fuck job seeking