In my late teens/twenties, I had a goal. Maybe you could call it a motivation. Because my education got all kinds of fucked up, and then senior year I was able to connect a few dots. That’s a longer story.
At that point, I decided that I would do whatever I could to encourage other kids that if I could do it despite the lack of encouragement around me. I did that. My mid 30’s I realized I had accomplished that goal several times over. Then I decided I’d live my life for myself. I had poured out everything nurturing to boost those kids self esteem.
Then I was okay, still struggling with motivation and C-PTSD. As well as depression, GAD, and being undiagnosed Autistic (that will be changing come Wednesday).
I achieved my goal. I didn’t really find a new one. And now, at 50, I’m just floating on the water. I’ve worked toward my MLIS, but I’m stuck having to pay for my last fuckup. Then I have one semester left to finish it. But for now, I’m going to apply to SNHU (rolling admission) for a MFA in writing.
I was on track to get stuff going and then last weekend happened and my survival mode dial got turned all the way to 10. I’m coming back down from that level. I got past the dramatics of the situation and now I can get back down to a more manageable level.
Man, I’ve been away too long… but I’m back. I guess I needed to gather my thoughts and just take a break.
One thing that has become clearer for me in recent months is that the reason I seem to excel at furniture assembly is because of my two strongest learning styles: visual and tactile.
Show me a video of something and I can recreate it.
Tell me how to do something and I flail.
Hand me a thing to deconstruct or construct and I figure it out.
Assembly feeds my tactile skills the most. IKEA’s instructions are all visual, so that utilizes that skill.
But where, in a world that becomes more and more automated each passing day, does someone like me fit in? The person who loves working with her hands.
Earlier, I had the thought that I was born in the wrong time period and gender. I should have been a Renaissance Man back in the day.
And maybe I was one in a past life.
But right now, I’m a woman in an awkward situation. Unable to fit into the mold society tells me to fit into, but unsure of how to make my mark in this very society and make a living so I’m not dependent on others.
I get comments and compliments from clients about how they’re impressed with my reviews and (the female clients especially) that I’m a woman (and disabled at that) doing furniture assembly in a society and culture where this -working with tools- is a male-dominant field.
But I can’t make this my whole income. Even if it did pick up more. My back won’t bear it. I love doing it; but it kills me physically. After bigger jobs, like the one tomorrow, I’ll need a day or two with nothing or very little going so I can recover.
I’m this misfit in society.
I’ve been struggling lately. I still haven’t gotten a steady job. And it’s taking its toll.
I can’t go back to the shelter. It’ll kill me. I’m going to try to negotiate a deal to stay. I have nowhere else I can go.
I’ll come back to posting here more.
For now, I figured this would be a good intro back to blogging…
Today, when I arrived at Central City Concern’s EAC (Employment Access Center), my case manager asked for my opinion on something. See, they’ve adapted some access points of the center to accommodate disabled folks like me, but it’s an older building and they haven’t gotten everything. They do have a small single wheelchair elevator to go down to the basement workspace, and the front door has an automated button system, but to access the computer area off the lobby, there are two steps up. And then three steps up to get to another area. I have a walker (while I love my cane, when it comes to back injuries, walkers are better because you aren’t contorting your body to use it).
So he asked me what I would suggest. I told him that small ramps could replace the steps and that they might have to be a little longer than the steps take, but it would be more ADA compliant. He had me write this up on a suggestion form and he turned it in.
Why have I mentioned this? Because hearing the opinions and voices of those who aren’t part of the norm of society is something that doesn’t happen often. Since I first hurt my back at 17, I’ve seen and experienced a disconnect from society. We are either invisible, dismissed, second class citizens… you name it.
And it sucks.
For years, even up until about 6 or 7 years ago, I wouldn’t consider myself disabled. I had my back injury and countless other injuries and health issues, but I rarely classified myself as disabled. In part because of how I was treated at 18 at the first community college I attended. They were horrendous to disabled students. Being kicked out of music classes, dismissed for needing assistance, you name it. Their DSRC was a joke. A tiny office barely big enough to hold two desks. No testing areas, nothing. The frustration was palpable.
I now live in Portland, which has a sizable disable population. I now own the label. With my back getting reinjured (twice) and more and more injuries and such added to the list (along with mental health fuckery), I have come to accept the label as part of who and what I am. But just because I’m in a city with a large disabled population, doesn’t mean everything is wonderfully accessible.
There are many apartment buildings and houses I could never live in. Too many stairs and no accessibility. Granted, if I ever had the money to buy a house, I’d hopefully be able to remodel it for accessibility. I can climb occasional stairs as needed, but I couldn’t live somewhere with lots of them.
My case manager asked me today because I had my walker. Because I have to lift it up to get past those two or three steps. If it isn’t loaded down, which it usually isn’t, then that’s okay. Anything more than what I had today would be too much weight.
One other area, and I may expand on this another time, is how the equipment we use is not treated properly. Service Dogs are the main focus with this issue. SD’s are there to help their handlers function within society’s parameters. My PTSD is easily triggered by a person, usually male, sitting or standing too close to me. Having a trained dog with me would help assure that space around me would be maintained for my mental healthiness. Same for other working dogs. They are working, helping their handlers gain their independence from other people. Freedom to do things others find normal, easy tasks without the need for a person to always be there to help. That’s all anyone asks.
But there are far too many people claiming their untrained pet dogs are SD’s, when they are not. There are a number of reasons these are a bad idea. They can show aggression toward other dogs, even Service Dogs, attacking them or humans. This can potentially ruin an SD and this then restricts the freedom once again of the handler. Again, I may likely expand on this in it’s own post.
Our society has long dismissed those who are disabled (among other groups). We typically aren’t seen as equals who can contribute just as much to society as able-bodied/minded people can. Sure there have been some outliers such as Stephen Hawking, but he was known in his field before he was diagnosed with ALS. But for many of us, we are seen more as a burden on society.
All we want is to be treated as equals and be given the chance to contribute to society like everyone else.
I’ve blogged recently about my difficulties finding work. I’ve struggled finding my niche in society. And after watching videos and reading books, I do know WHY, at least in part, I’m having so many issues.
I’m a Scanner (Barbara Sher’s term) or what has been coined more recently, a Multipotentialite (see video below). I have a couple of Barbara’s books, and man, they make sense to me. Then I found the video below and it still clicks.
The problem is that society doesn’t see us as valuable in traditional environments. As the video mentions, our society thrives and focuses on people being “specialists.” But us Scanners are anything BUT specialists. We know a bit more than enough to be competent in several things, but never hone in on ONE thing.
I have my BA in English, creative writing as my focus. But I’m not writing all the time. I go through phases where I can work on my fiction for a few months, and then that winds down and I focus on another thing. I’m the type of Scanner Barbara refers to as a Cyclical Scanner.
When it comes to my core passions, I have four. And I shift, mostly circular in nature, between those four things. Writing, Photography, Web Design, and Sewing/Design.
And then there are the “others.” My storage unit is full of supplies for the “others.” Oh, I need to paint some shoes to match this costume… Other. Make a mask? Other. Design a book cover? Other. Make a piece of jewelry for something? Other. And soooo many more. My home, and by extension my storage unit, is a place of variety and creativity. I do many, MANY things, but am no expert in any one of them. Pretty decent at several of them, but no expert. It doesn’t mean I love any of them more or less. My “Big Four” are the ones I’m “pretty fucking good” at.
So, how does this tie in to job hunting?
Our society has become entranced with Specialists. Look at job listings sometime. In accounting, you have listings for Payroll Specialists and so on. In tech, well, don’t get me started. All the various programming languages and certifications and …. yeah. In medicine, engineering, the trades (spot welder versus sheet welding) and most areas of employment, you’ll find a call for specialists.
But for a decent chunk of human history, it was balanced out between generalists and specialists. One person who fits Scanner types well? Leonardo da Vinci. Most know who he was because of his paintings. But he was also an inventor and so much more. What we call now a “Renaissance Man.”
Scanners and Multipotentialites are Renaissance People. We have a lot to offer society, but society doesn’t see what we can do for them. We are pushed to the outer edges of society and, in many cases, not really taken seriously.
I have a slew of skills I can offer an employer, not just creative stuff. But finding a company that potentially SEES those skills as a package deal worth the time is difficult.
Do I have other issues that are making my employability difficult? Yes. And I acknowledge them completely.
I do tell people that the best environment for me to work in is where I have a variety of things I can work on and switch back and forth between. And, because of my back, where I can get up and move around as needed.
Who knows where I’ll end up. I certainly don’t. I want to be able to love my job. Or at least like it enough that I don’t fall asleep halfway through the morning. Granted, that would require me to actually get decent sleep at night. I’m working on it.
I’ve always been kind of an “odd duck” well, rabbit. I’m still not entirely sure if identifying as Rabbit from Winnie-the-Pooh is a good thing or a bad one. But I’ve had several friends agree that I’m Rabbit. But I’ve always been different. Not so much in a neuro-atypical way, just different.
I was the kid who plucked dog and cat hairs from the family pets and looked at them under the 3x microscope. The one who “hunted the dragon” which was actually my dad working on the yard. The kid who was caught on film in rainbow striped tights and a slip (top, not skirt) and ballet shoes, using my dad’s drafting table after hours to doodle.
The teen who wore black leather lace up boots and a beret or real fedora -black with a grey band- and pink and blue shiny eye shadow. Drawing and dancing and singing and pretending I was famous. All while contemplating suicide because of emotional abuse.
I tried, in my 20’s, to go with the pack, to dress like others and fit in. But I realized as I inched closer to 30 that that wasn’t me. It wasn’t WHO or WHAT I was. Still not me now. I rejected the “American Dream” concept of a house in the ‘burbs with the white picket fence and all the other trappings.
My life has been filled with good and bad. The bad has had a tendency to overwhelm me and my life. From a sexually abusive relationship to almost dying at 35 from Cellulitis. To being homeless for most of the past two years. It hasn’t been easy, not by any means.
For labels: I’m an Androgynous Aromantic Asexual Furry Cosplayer who also happens to write SF/F… and, well, there probably are a few other things. I paint, I sew, I design floorplans of houses and costumes. I can draft my own patterns to some degree. I refer to myself as a Geek-of-all-Trades.
And just about everything that one with all those labels and hobbies (along with more I didn’t list) would have to help define who they are is locked away in the storage unit up for auction tomorrow at noon PST. My identity, my first fursuit, my costumes, my sewing machine, my music.
My everything.
I’m not perfect or beautiful or famous like I had dreamed of as a kid. I’m just this one person who is trying to pick my life back up after being on temporary hold for almost two years. I’m a person who stumbles and falls on my own feet while walking along the path of life. I think a lot of us do that. I just choose not to hide the bruises from my falls.
In the past, I’ve mentioned the relationship my dad and I had before he passed away in 2014. One of the things that I found interesting while typing up the previous post with Disheveled is how I was and am seen compared to how I was back when I was heavily involved in my music.
I stopped playing piano in 2007 and singing in public in 1998. Piano because I had this fear instilled in me when I was little by my mother about playing where others could hear me. I was about 4 and figured out the melody to the Star Spangled Banner by myself. And I was damn proud of that. So, I played it every chance I got, which was a lot. My mother, who was trained herself, could have come over and taught me how to control my volume by how hard or soft I hit the keys. But she didn’t. I’d get about 4 or 5 notes in and from wherever she was in the house, she’d yell, “STOP PLAYING THAT SONG!!!”
Fear instilled. I had moments where I was specifically performing later on and I was fine, but over the years, I grew increasingly self-conscious about others hearing me play. In 1997, I stopped. A year later, I stepped away from choirs and what little solo singing I did because of a couple of factors: one was that same fear. The other was my health. I kept getting sick and couldn’t figure out why. Eventually, I did. We were dealing with an extensive roof leak at my parent’s house and black mold formed (although my dad and sister denied it was there. I’m hyper-sensitive to it) in the attic crawlspace. Living there while working on my BA down the street (quite literally, as we lived right behind CSUH/CSUEB) was wreaking havoc on my vocal chords. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with VCD (Vocal Chord Dysfunction). It took years and then visiting the house after dad died to get to that diagnosis.
Before he died, I got into a conversation with him about getting back into at least playing piano and wanting to save up for one. He was (quietly) over the moon. He was never one for showing much emotion. Somewhere in my blog posts, I tell the full story, but I ended up asking him why he was so excited that I wanted to get back to it. His words:
You were so positive and happy when you were involved in music. I want to see you that way again.
-My dad in 2014
And then I look at some of my really old poetry from while I was still singing and playing. I’ve always thought I wasn’t one for wearing a mask in society. That I always showed who I am, not what others wanted to see. But in a way, I did wear one. I re-read old poetry and stuff of mine and see some anger and depression, all during a time when I was seen as this happy, upbeat person.
Another recent thing involves a meme I posted recently on FB about the Greek words for different types of love. I was reminded of a nickname a friend of mine gave me when our church group was studying them in some setting. “Agape Amanda.” For Agape Love. Love of everyone.
And then I look at my poetry. Dude, what did people see that I didn’t? While Disheveled is a bit more recent than the early 90’s, I do have similar stuff where I was angry at the world for treating me differently for walking with a cane (and not in a good way). Depressed for similar reasons. I was dealing with a lot of different things back then. I still am. Some of them are different than the ones then, but the emotions are still the same. Maybe now I’m more true to who I am in what I show. I can’t hide behind the mask forever.
Becoming the Dragon: I have evolved, personality wise, to even more of a dragon. Hear me out.
Sure, all the other stuff I mentioned yesterday, like collecting “shiny” things and disliking humans, is part of it, but there’s more. See, in folklore around the world, dragons are fire-breathing people-eating monsters. No, I don’t think of myself as a monster. I’ve dated a few, though.
If anything, I was more like a super-mild version of Puff the Magic Dragon through much of my life. Puff was pretty cool, but super nice and loved everyone and everyone loved him, etc.
Me? I was (and still am to some degree) everyone’s doormat. The yes-girl. Needed someone to shlep you and/or your crap? Call me. Need someone to watch your kids? Call me. Need someone to do XYZ into infinity? Call me. To the point where it got to be manipulative and abusive by some. I spoiled friends, said yes to anything and everything, went to the ends of the earth and back. Then my father passed away in 2014 and things changed for me. My need for help shifted the equation. Most of those who asked me for help were nowhere to be found. Those who are still around in my life are unable to help as much as they’d like.
Enter being homeless. It wasn’t as bad in the first year, couchsurfing. It was when I got into the shelter when I began to change. If my contempt for humans was mild before (mild to moderate), then it tipped the scales (okay, pun kind of intended) into the VERY DRAGON levels. I withdrew more, seeing how some others at the shelter treated fellow residents. But the Angry Dragon side emerged quickly. When bullying of one woman escalated, I snapped at the bullies. Then I’d withdraw to my corner and watch. When they did it again, I lunged and snapped again. This happened a few times.
Now, I’m about as Pacifist as one can get without committing to some peaceful religion. Seriously. I do identify with Buddhism, but I’m not at a place where I can let go of parts of me that don’t ring true with it. My dad was very much a pacifist after he did his tour in WWII. So for this anger to be present doesn’t sit well with me. Eventually I need to separate the anger from the aspect of being strong and standing up for myself and others. To show my passion without anger. That will be the big challenge for me. It is, like everything else in life, a lesson to learn.
The Great Penguini Speaketh 