I Met a Woman

I met a woman today.

I work in retail, my job isn’t fulfilling, I'm depressed, I'm tired, my bones hurt, my soul is suffering, my passion is gone and I want to die. I feel these things every single day, and I hear poor solutions to my problem. “Just find another job,” “work harder.” This advice doesn't do anything but pile weight on my heart. It's hard to even call it advice. I call it privileged suggestion.

I'm the sole income.

I have a responsibility to have a stable job, and presently mine finds me too valuable to fire or let go even though they might have a couple reasons. I make enough money to scrape by. It's hard, when my job kills my hobbies and my creative mind. I think if I had a better paying job I'd be happier and I'd probably be right, but I'm a pushover too. I can't tell them to stop over working me, I can't tell them that they've been denying me a promotion or income when I've been doing the work of three people on a daily basis for two years, I can't tell them that I'm only going to do what's in my job description, and not what everyone else should be doing. I can't tell them because I'm a coward and I want people to like me.

So I'll do what I'm doing. I'll probably keep doing the work of three people and continue not to get paid for it.

So I met a woman today.

She wore a blue flowing overcoat of some kind over a white dress that reached the floor. She had grey hair and glasses and she needed my help. “Of course,” I say, “how can I help you?” She needed three, twenty pound bags of gravel. Since kneeling over and over makes my knees hurt and crack and pop though I'm only twenty eight, I picked up all three and put them in her cart.

She was mortified, concerned she wouldn't be able to get them in her car the way I stacked them in her cart. “Don't worry ma’am,” I said, “we offer carry out assistance.” Because retail is all about guest assistance with a smile.

And because it's me, I offered to do it for her. She rung out, and I started walking her to her car. “How long have you been working here?” She asked me, and because I am depressed, and for some reason I think I'm funny, I responded.

“Too long.” Which was a mistake. That could've gotten me written up, talked to about my attitude, told that I should be a face of the brand, I could be fired if she decided to tell anyone.

This woman who had gone to Hawaii a few weeks prior asked me then what I was passionate about as I loaded her bags into her car next to some extremely beautiful violet flowers. I told her I didn't know anymore, but I used to love to write, and read, and create. I used to be decent at writing and drawing as well. I loved art of all kinds and cared so much about animals. But my passion died.

I wanted to cry.

I smiled at her and laughed, and told her it was okay while I realized for the hundredth time this month that my heart had been shattered and stomped, shit on and lit on fire by so many years of bile and vitriol spit from customers and managers and coworkers and friends working in retail. It was just normal to feel empty. It was so normal to feel like my purpose is to go to work, stress, be beaten down, work myself so hard every joint screams in agony. Then I would come home, cram something into my throat that kept my worthless suit of meat functioning, and then I would sleep. I would get just a scrap of welcome relief from the Hell that is every single moment I'm awake, and then I would wake up and have to do it again.

It was so normal to feel like this, and she told me that she loved writers. That they were interesting souls, and so very, very intelligent. I laughed and thanked her, and she told me that she was not trying to patronize me, and that it was backed by science. She was a counselor, and had attended a writing conference in Hawaii. She told me that I would go insane working in a place like the one I'm in. I technically have. I do the same thing and expect change, I expect someone to recognize what a good little cog I am and break my back every day pretending that it'll matter.

She told me that I should work with plants, or walk dogs, be with nature and my soul could start to feel a little lighter. It was as though she read my mind, and saw how damaged I was. Maybe she was just responding the way she would've to any retail worker that gave her the same response. I don't really know, I’ve been told I sound like I care about every guest I encounter. I do try. I treat them all like I would like to be treated. I'm not a good person, but I don't want anyone to feel like I do, either. If I can make someone's day lighter, I'll try.

I've been told that I need to find a new job hundreds of times. I never do, but I listened to her and nodded. I said, “maybe,” and, “that's a good idea,” a lot. Then she told me something a little more meaningful. It as well is a piece of advice I've gotten so many times before, but for some reason the way she spoke, maybe it was because she was a counselor, but she said, “most importantly, you're a writer. You need to write.” She was so firm, “no matter what, you need to write or you'll go crazy. Consider that some free counseling from me, to you.”

And I told her to have a wonderful day, and thanked her for her conversation. She told me that she loved me and that I was an angel and closed her car door.

Maybe it was because I helped her to her car with her sixty pounds of rocks, maybe she really liked bragging to retail workers about her success. Maybe, though, she was put in my path when I needed to hear particular words, when they would resonate the most with me.

I'm a writer, so I need to write.