I moved to Seattle to take a job after no luck finding one in my home state of Nevada for a year. It should have been my dream job, stepping up to the big leagues of paralegal-dom after many years working for country, but good, lawyers. It should have been a whole new vista for me, an exciting new professional experience in an exciting new city in beautiful new country.
It was the job from hell. Seriously. In my 40 years in the work force, I could not imagine a more horrific experience. I suspect my boss was a true narcissist, and I'm dead certain she was emotionally and mentally abusive. In current nomenclature, I was bullied mercilessly. The three months I worked at that firm was the longest, most horrific time I can remember aside from one marriage I've worked hard to block from recall. It should be noted that the dynamics of an abusive intimate relationship and an abusive employment relationship are extremely similar. That job and that woman damaged me. I needed counseling to get past the worst of it.
I'm still damaged. What woke me up a little while ago was a dream that I was right back there, working for that harridan again. I woke gasping, with the electricity of a panic attack running through my veins.
Don't get me wrong; I've moved on with living my life, and I've accomplished a lot since then. I stayed in counseling for a year and unpacked a lot of things. I made the decision to return to school, excelling at that and enjoying it, and I have another job I more or less enjoy too. It doesn't challenge me and the pay is middlin', but I don't bring any work stress home at night either, and that's worth a lot. I am the only person in my office; I run the whole damn state for my company and for the most part, I like that solitude and independence just fine. If some jerk brings donuts into the office when I'm cutting out sugar, well, I have no one to blame but myself. To further my healing, I considered writing her a letter but opted instead for scathingly honest review on Glassdoor, and if it saves even one person from what I went through, I'm glad.
And yet, here I am dreaming about that horrid woman, and still losing sleep to her, three years down the road. What gives?
I was lying there, having burned one of my precious few anxiety pills and trying to read a bit of War and Peace in the hopes I could return to sleep, when I realized it.
And then: Why should I? That bitch hurt me. She's hurt lots of people, that I know of; I was far from her first. Why does she deserve anything from me?
And the truth is, she doesn't.
And I know the platitude, that forgiveness isn't for the other person, it's for you, and I kinda believe that, but then again, I don't believe it at all. To forgive is to absolve the person of what they did, and I'm just not going to do that. She's accountable, past and future, because I know she's still doing it to others who were looking forward to a terrific position just as I was. When I was there I saw payroll records for three other legal assistants in the eight months before I arrived. Add me, that's four in a year. She's accountable. I might not be willing to confront her any more directly than an anonymous online employment review, probably because I loathe conflict with a flaming purple passion, but it's what I can do.
No, what popped into my head from the depths of I-don't-know-how-long-ago was another definition of forgiveness I heard once attributed to Oprah, I think it was, and I'm not a fan of Oprah, but I'm a fan of this definition, because it works:
Forgiveness is giving up the wish that things had been different.
And as I lie there still unable to go back to sleep but also unable to unscramble the letters on the pages of War and Peace, I realized that's what I need to work with.
I am not making the buckets of money I did, briefly, at that firm. I do not have the nice house, and the nice new car and maybe a truck for the Tominator, and long weekend trips up to Vancouver and Whistler and a canoe for all the lakes around here. I do not have a 401(k) and killer health insurance. I do not have the prestige of high-end law firm experience in a posh downtown office tower. And that's what I should have had. It's what I'd worked for, for so long. It's what I was offered when I left my family behind, left my home with my Mother's Day rosebushes tended lovingly in the yard, and dragged the Tominator and Dream Girl and my stuff up here, and I should have it. I was robbed.
Yeah, I know. Shit happens and who said life was fair, suck it up buttercup. But underneath it, as superficial as it sounds, I am angry about that. Still. I moved up here for professional and financial advancement but here I am, scraping by from paycheck to paycheck, as I have for most of my life.
But on the other hand, as I struggle through many of my days, one of the first things I count when I'm reminding myself of all I have to be thankful for is that I no longer work for that Medusa. I may not have what I should have had, but I have enough, and I'm away from her, and I'm nowhere near anyone remotely like her, and that should be nothing but good.
I don't have to absolve that woman of anything, but I can give up my wish that it had worked out. I can do something radical, even, and wish for something good tomorrow instead of in the past.
New entry on tomorrow's to-do list. Make that today's to-do list; cruising up on one a.m.
I'm going to try to get some sleep now. And even if I don't, even if tomorrow - no, today - is another day I have to wade through in a sleep-deprived fugue state, I know one thing I can work on toward my own brand of forgiveness: I can wish forward instead of wishing behind.
It's a start.
Update: Yesterday I was scrolling through job listings, thinking it might be time to go for an upgrade, and I see this Hagatha is advertising for a new