Kicked in the can and to the curb

Yay capitalism.

My favorite episode of Succession is one titled “Shit Show at the Fuck Factory.” And get this: I was lucky enough to score a front row seat to the original Shit Show at none other than THE Fuck Factory on Monday last week.

That’s the day I got laid off.

And here’s where I could artfully craft a screed on how I have trust issues with Corporate America and THIS IS WHY I WAS NEVER MEANT TO WORK FOR ANYONE GODDAMMIT and spew some bullshit about regret that would surely invite commisseration.

The only thing I regret is the time I spent last week thinking I wasn’t boss enough to handle this (see also: snorkeling).

The entire day on Monday, I didn’t know how to process anything. I was completely useless. The world when I had that job was tight and small and focused and I knew when the days started and ended and suddenly my world had way too much SPACE. I was literally drowning in space. So I did what any sane person would do.

I spent the entire week hip-deep in deli mac and cheese, consuming endless episodes of Below Deck (Med and Sailing) and reading way too many websites for law school and nursing school. I might have also Googled “how much does a Chief Stew make on a luxury yacht.” I even canceled my therapy appointment this Monday because I didn’t want to send my therapist to therapy to unravel their session with me.

But something yesterday shook loose. And I think it was because I wrote.

Somewhere I found the gumption to de-ensconce myself from my protective mac-and-cheese cocoon and file a freelance story. It was a story respectfully told with useful information and just enough voice so I didn’t set off the client’s “lippy” alert.

And by doing so, I remembered that I have ideas. Experiences. Expertise. I remembered that I’m useful.

That’s a helluva thing to forget. Whether it’s a breakup, layoff or some other loss — those acts mercilessly break off a piece of who we are and it takes a moment to figure out who we are without that piece. That we’re capable/desirable/respectable/competent and able to sustain life beyond the protective outer coating of a comfort food-shaped blanket fort.

Sometimes it just takes a hot second for the foot-shaped bruise on the ass to heal. Because now, I can sit on the curb I was kicked to and think…

Damn, this is a really great view.

So, if you know someone who has recently been kicked to the curb and doesn’t mind a bit of R-rated language, send ‘em a link to this post. We can all sit on the curb together and talk about our ass bruises.

Along with what’s next.

xo.

E.