There are times when I hate my life.
Wait. Allow me to rephrase that.
There are times when I hate parts of my life.
Today, specifically, I hate my professional situation. This seems to be a recurring theme of late, and I despise it so. Understand that, given my profession, I have the opportunity to shape the future and train the mind. I love knowledge, and above all, I love to spread enlightenment. I marvel at the power of the mind. As Adler said, “the purpose of learning is growth, and our minds, unlike our bodies, can continue growing as we continue to live.” Bloody amazing, the power of the mind. Consider, for instance, the prose of Milton, who states, “the mind is its own place, and in itself can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven.” Furthermore, let us look at a quotation of my own devising, which reads, “Hell is my imagination as I ponder what could be and what might have been…”
Right now, as I look to my professional and, by logical extent, personal future, Hell is indeed my imagination as I ponder what could be. My life revolves around decisions made by other people, especially regarding budgetary constraints. I’m told, day after day, how marvelous of an individual I am for making a difference in the lives of hundreds of people, and yet I have no job security to speak off. I am not yet counted amongst the blessed few who can boast a permanent contract with an employer. Ultimately, I am dispensable, in all senses of the word, a band-aid for the system at a moments notice, a tool; I am utterly disposable at the end of each year.
Try to imagine how my morale is, knowing that, no matter how good a job I do this year, I have no guarantee of employment for the year following. I live through each day not knowing what the next will bring, be it concern over where I will be working, who I will be working with, or whether I will even be working at all. I am aged nearly a quarter of a century and, like more and more people these days, still live with my parents. I know other people in similar situations — some as old as thirty — who are unable to find permanent, meaningful work in the profession of their choosing because, again, of budgetary restraints, because of decisions made by other people that rule their lives.
I feel powerless. I feel angry.
I try my best not to let these feelings of frustration spill into my personal life. However, despite, or perhaps in spite of, my best efforts to spare my closest friends and loved ones my professional concerns, they bleed through into my everyday, and have been with greater and greater frequency. To those people, and to specifically one person, I suppose that this entry is intended not as an apology, nor as an excuse, but as an explanation — I don’t try to pull you down with me, but sometimes, I need someone to pull me up.
Thank you for always being there whenever I’ve needed to talk, to vent, to know that someone was listening.