Liminal Moments
THE ORDINARY WORLD
6 Jan 2020"The company has decided to restructure."
The artists and programmers in the conference room fell into a stunned silence. I wish I could say that I was surprised, but that would have been a lie.
The artists and programmers in the conference room fell into a stunned silence. I wish I could say that I was surprised, but that would have been a lie.
"Workforce reductions have been identified," the latest nine-month wonder corporate leader -- a slender, attractive redhead who didn't so much endure the attention she received from her male colleagues as encourage it -- gripped a printed email between comically long, but meticulously manicured nails, her gaze locked on the page as she read. "and unfortunately, the people in this room have been identified as part that reduction."
I shook my head and sighed. This job -- one I'd held for almost six years -- had been hard won. Medical issues had forced me from IT, so at the tender age of forty-two, I retrained as a Visual Effects modeler and artist. This, ironically, led to another five years in IT until, finally, I landed a contract modeler position with that company. What followed was a pace of work that went from busy to frantic, with seemingly arbitrary deadlines treated as holy writ.
And I loved it.
I wrote, produced, and sometimes even directed countless professional videos, managed voice over talent, learned Unity3D, produced Virtual Reality applications, and generally worked far harder than I had in any of my other professional roles. It was exhausting, occasionally maddening, just as often exhilarating, but despite all that, it had been, hands-down, the best corporate role I'd ever held in my life.
Why, then, did I feel profoundly relieved?
"Our HR people will be contacting you with your individual packages..." the corporate leader continued, but I tuned her out. I should be furious. I should be heartbroken. Why, then, was I fighting the urge to giggle. How could losing a corporate job make me so happy?
That question, it turned out, would dominate my life for the next five-and-a-half years.
THE CALL TO ADVENTURE
24 April 2022
"It's just not a good fit."
My boss -- the third I'd had in the eleven months I'd been with the vehicle manufacturing company -- blanched, my words knocking him on his heels. "What..." he stammered. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said." I knew I should feel nervous, but -- as had been the case since my first disastrous day in this Technical Writing contract -- all I felt was disgust and profound disinterest. "The work and the culture aren't good for me, and I need to move on."
Everything I said was true, but that wasn't the main reason why I wanted to quit. During the long months of COVID lockdown, I'd crafted a Space Opera trilogy, publishing the first novel to surprisingly good reviews on Kindle Direct Publishing. While the piece required what I felt was some minor tweaks, I considered it complete. All I had to do now was sand down the edges.
That, unfortunately, was the rub. Ever since I'd started what I still consider one of the worst jobs I've ever held, I'd been unable to summon what had until recently been an effortless writing focus. Frustrated, I finally started some long-overdue therapy, which in turn led to this moment.
"Is it..." The manager swallowed. "Is it the commute?"
"There wasn't supposed to be a commute," I countered calmly. The manager nevertheless recoiled; this was a sore topic. I shrugged. "I accepted this as a fully remote role. If I'd known I'd need to drive seventy mile round-trips four times a week, I would have turned it down."
The manager sighed. "Is there..." He cleared his throat. "Is there anything I can do to change this?"
"Yes."
The manager blanched; he hadn't expected that.
I smiled as I continued.
"Make me one hundred percent remote as I signed on for," I continued, "and I'll stay on."
"I..." He sagged. "I can't do that."
I just chuckled.
Two weeks later, after dropping off all corporate detritus, I climbed into my car and headed back home. I wish I could say I was excited, exhilarated, or even happy, but I wasn't. No, I was acutely aware that this was a risk. Yet, if my new therapy had taught me anything, it was that staying in that role would do nothing save make me angrier and more unhealthy. If I was to change my life -- truly, profoundly change it -- I would have to take steps that I found deeply uncomfortable.
I pulled into my driveway and chuckled. It wasn't like I was going to sit around and do nothing; I had my own business. While COVID had been a nightmare, the time it provided me to just create had been a godsend. In just under nine months I wrote a Space Opera trilogy, the first two novels already out on the market. The third novel had stalled, mostly because I had no energy left at the end of the day. Now? All I had to do was edit that third novel before diving into the line of quick-turn novella waiting in the wings. I would never not be busy, and if there was something I loved, it was being busy.
I opened the car door and climbed out. Besides, if I needed the cash, I could land a short-term gig with no problems. After all, I was experienced, focused, and talented. If I needed work, I'd find it. I always had.
That, unfortunately, was the rub. Ever since I'd started what I still consider one of the worst jobs I've ever held, I'd been unable to summon what had until recently been an effortless writing focus. Frustrated, I finally started some long-overdue therapy, which in turn led to this moment.
"Is it..." The manager swallowed. "Is it the commute?"
"There wasn't supposed to be a commute," I countered calmly. The manager nevertheless recoiled; this was a sore topic. I shrugged. "I accepted this as a fully remote role. If I'd known I'd need to drive seventy mile round-trips four times a week, I would have turned it down."
The manager sighed. "Is there..." He cleared his throat. "Is there anything I can do to change this?"
"Yes."
The manager blanched; he hadn't expected that.
I smiled as I continued.
"Make me one hundred percent remote as I signed on for," I continued, "and I'll stay on."
"I..." He sagged. "I can't do that."
I just chuckled.
Two weeks later, after dropping off all corporate detritus, I climbed into my car and headed back home. I wish I could say I was excited, exhilarated, or even happy, but I wasn't. No, I was acutely aware that this was a risk. Yet, if my new therapy had taught me anything, it was that staying in that role would do nothing save make me angrier and more unhealthy. If I was to change my life -- truly, profoundly change it -- I would have to take steps that I found deeply uncomfortable.
I pulled into my driveway and chuckled. It wasn't like I was going to sit around and do nothing; I had my own business. While COVID had been a nightmare, the time it provided me to just create had been a godsend. In just under nine months I wrote a Space Opera trilogy, the first two novels already out on the market. The third novel had stalled, mostly because I had no energy left at the end of the day. Now? All I had to do was edit that third novel before diving into the line of quick-turn novella waiting in the wings. I would never not be busy, and if there was something I loved, it was being busy.
I opened the car door and climbed out. Besides, if I needed the cash, I could land a short-term gig with no problems. After all, I was experienced, focused, and talented. If I needed work, I'd find it. I always had.
How wrong I was.
THE ORDEAL
September 2024
"Are you ready?"
I didn't know how to answer. The past two years had been a living hell. My father had passed away only three months after I'd walked away from my last corporate gig. Like everything else in my life, this was complicated in a way only military brats can truly understand. Our own kids were largely absent, our daughter and grandkids an ocean away, while our son worked seventy hour weeks. Even people I considered friends had silently drifted out of our lives, the days of large get-togethers in our house long behind us.
"Hon?"
I turned to my wife on the front lawn of our home of twenty-four years, the early afternoon sun beating down on the driveway I'd replaced only two years earlier. Like me, she was dressed in grubbies, dirt staining her jeans.
"Hon?" she asked again. "You good?"
I forced a grin. "Yeah. You?"
My wife sighed, staring up at our home of a nearly quarter decade before glancing at the "SOLD" sign on our lawn.
"I'm okay," she finally sighed. Whether she was saying that for my benefit or for hers I could not tell. "Not like I have to be anywhere now," she added with a chuckle.
I snarled. The road to this moment had started in March of 2024. My wife -- weeks after being hailed as the "gold standard of leadership" for a certain well-known health insurance company -- was, along with her Senior Director and VP, unceremoniously laid off after sixteen years. No hand off. No "Thank you for building this team from three to twenty people, and for standing up for the patients..."; no, it was "This is your last day, please log out," and done.
As luck would have it, our adult son had purchased a condo three years earlier, and he and his wife had just purchased a house. We immediately reached out with a crazy plan: Could we sell our place and move into the condo while we found work? He happily agreed, and the plan was set into motion.
Two days later, my mother died.
I would have loved to have spoken to my therapist about that, but I'd had to stop because we no longer had health insurance.
And to think, my grandfather, my father, and I all served to defend this country.
I buried my emotions in hard physical labor. I finished projects around the house that had nagged me for years, donated crates of clothing and housing goods to Goodwill, sold off prized games and collectibles, readying for the day it would go on the market. By July we were completely moved out, learning quickly that the downshift from two thousand square feet to barely seven hundred square feet would take some adjustment. Fortunately, I would fit in the new place better than ever before; a diagnosis of AuDHD had put me on medication that finally focused my life and, more importantly, got my stress-driven appetite under control. I dropped from a rotund 250 lbs on my 5'7" frame to a surprisingly svelte 183, two decades of weight lifting to fight the battle of the bulge finally paying off. I looked better than I had in twenty years, felt better than I had in longer, and -- even with this seismic shift in our reality -- had hope.
Then, two weeks we accepted an offer on our home, my oldest sister died of bone cancer. Three weeks from diagnosis to final breath. I'm still processing her loss, and likely will be for the rest of my life.
"Hon?" My wife touched my shoulder. "You okay?"
I reached out and grabbed her hand, staring at the house. Charitably put, we'd overpaid for a lemon in 2001, and spent almost half of its purchase price in repairs over the past twenty-four years. Yet we'd raised our family in this house, made movies, and made a lifetime of memories in its walls. Surely, that had to count for something, right?
"Oh, yeah," I grinned.
She squeezed my hand hard. "Me, too."
We climbed in our car, stared once last time at the last remnant of a life cracking under the weight of our advancing age, and drove away. We haven't been back since.
I can't. Not by a long shot.
The good news is that my wife landed a job again just after we sold the house. The bad news is that she was laid off, again, six months later. She's currently unemployed, and, like me, is not finding anyone willing to hire us.
As for me, well, Corporate America and I are like oil and other un-mixy things. After going through the motions of trying to get another got corporate gig, I finally accepted that, as this point in my life, I'd be a lot happier just moving boxes at CostCo. Imagine my surprise, then, when not even CostCo -- or Trader Joe's, or Target, or even my Friendly Neighborhood Gaming Store -- would give me the time of day.
"Fine," might be the first response. "More time to write!"
That, unfortunately, leads to the unexpected downside of my AuDHD medication: I've lost my authorial voice.
I didn't know how to answer. The past two years had been a living hell. My father had passed away only three months after I'd walked away from my last corporate gig. Like everything else in my life, this was complicated in a way only military brats can truly understand. Our own kids were largely absent, our daughter and grandkids an ocean away, while our son worked seventy hour weeks. Even people I considered friends had silently drifted out of our lives, the days of large get-togethers in our house long behind us.
"Hon?"
I turned to my wife on the front lawn of our home of twenty-four years, the early afternoon sun beating down on the driveway I'd replaced only two years earlier. Like me, she was dressed in grubbies, dirt staining her jeans.
"Hon?" she asked again. "You good?"
I forced a grin. "Yeah. You?"
My wife sighed, staring up at our home of a nearly quarter decade before glancing at the "SOLD" sign on our lawn.
"I'm okay," she finally sighed. Whether she was saying that for my benefit or for hers I could not tell. "Not like I have to be anywhere now," she added with a chuckle.
I snarled. The road to this moment had started in March of 2024. My wife -- weeks after being hailed as the "gold standard of leadership" for a certain well-known health insurance company -- was, along with her Senior Director and VP, unceremoniously laid off after sixteen years. No hand off. No "Thank you for building this team from three to twenty people, and for standing up for the patients..."; no, it was "This is your last day, please log out," and done.
As luck would have it, our adult son had purchased a condo three years earlier, and he and his wife had just purchased a house. We immediately reached out with a crazy plan: Could we sell our place and move into the condo while we found work? He happily agreed, and the plan was set into motion.
Two days later, my mother died.
I would have loved to have spoken to my therapist about that, but I'd had to stop because we no longer had health insurance.
And to think, my grandfather, my father, and I all served to defend this country.
I buried my emotions in hard physical labor. I finished projects around the house that had nagged me for years, donated crates of clothing and housing goods to Goodwill, sold off prized games and collectibles, readying for the day it would go on the market. By July we were completely moved out, learning quickly that the downshift from two thousand square feet to barely seven hundred square feet would take some adjustment. Fortunately, I would fit in the new place better than ever before; a diagnosis of AuDHD had put me on medication that finally focused my life and, more importantly, got my stress-driven appetite under control. I dropped from a rotund 250 lbs on my 5'7" frame to a surprisingly svelte 183, two decades of weight lifting to fight the battle of the bulge finally paying off. I looked better than I had in twenty years, felt better than I had in longer, and -- even with this seismic shift in our reality -- had hope.
Then, two weeks we accepted an offer on our home, my oldest sister died of bone cancer. Three weeks from diagnosis to final breath. I'm still processing her loss, and likely will be for the rest of my life.
"Hon?" My wife touched my shoulder. "You okay?"
I reached out and grabbed her hand, staring at the house. Charitably put, we'd overpaid for a lemon in 2001, and spent almost half of its purchase price in repairs over the past twenty-four years. Yet we'd raised our family in this house, made movies, and made a lifetime of memories in its walls. Surely, that had to count for something, right?
"Oh, yeah," I grinned.
She squeezed my hand hard. "Me, too."
We climbed in our car, stared once last time at the last remnant of a life cracking under the weight of our advancing age, and drove away. We haven't been back since.
RESURRECTION
This is the part of the story where I'm supposed to outline our triumphs as we start the return to our new normal.I can't. Not by a long shot.
The good news is that my wife landed a job again just after we sold the house. The bad news is that she was laid off, again, six months later. She's currently unemployed, and, like me, is not finding anyone willing to hire us.
As for me, well, Corporate America and I are like oil and other un-mixy things. After going through the motions of trying to get another got corporate gig, I finally accepted that, as this point in my life, I'd be a lot happier just moving boxes at CostCo. Imagine my surprise, then, when not even CostCo -- or Trader Joe's, or Target, or even my Friendly Neighborhood Gaming Store -- would give me the time of day.
"Fine," might be the first response. "More time to write!"
That, unfortunately, leads to the unexpected downside of my AuDHD medication: I've lost my authorial voice.
Prior to my medication I could turn out 4,000 to 6,000 words per day with barely an effort. Now? Every word, every comma, every beat feels like I'm dragging my feet through quicksand. I've lost the ecstasy of finding the right beat, or the explosion of the perfect turn of phrase for the action. In its place I'm crippled by hyperfocus and despair.
That's why I'm here.
A DISTANT MEMORY
This blog started as my daily writing exercise before becoming a production and education journal. Once I finally broke into a professional creative gig, I didn't need it any longer. As such, I hadn't looked at these pieces in well over a decade. So it was, on a chilly February night, I poured myself a cup of tea, turned on the electric fireplace next to my computer desk, and took a trip back in time.
And it hurt.
And it hurt.
Reading this blog was rough not because I'd dredged up old wounds; not in the least. Therapy long ago got me past my toxic relationships with Stone Soup Films. No, revisiting those long-ago days hurt because they still feel recent. The needy personalities, the production challenges, the childish tantrums, hell, my daily panic attacks for even attempting that last project were all as clear to me today as if it had happened last week.
But it wasn't a week ago; it was twenty-one years.
Twenty. One. Years.
A baby born when we started shooting Pray for Daylight can legally drink.
How is that even possible? How could a lifetime pass me by in what feels like little more than a crazy couple of years?
I can blame some of this on the pandemic, of course; like some, the mental escape from Corporate servitude is something I refuse to shake.
We're not surprised by that, of course. We're Gen Xers. We've been victims of every greedy experiment that Boomers ever imagined; why should it be any different in our autumn years?
We're not surprised by that, of course. We're Gen Xers. We've been victims of every greedy experiment that Boomers ever imagined; why should it be any different in our autumn years?
ONE DAY AT A TIME
The years since 2020 have been hard, crushingly so. Trauma doesn't make you stronger, it just kicks your ass until you deal with it, but right now, folks, we're tired. All emotional reserves are spent. We're exhausted, out of ideas, and nobody wants to hire us. So, what the hell is next?
I genuinely do not know.
So now we live small, one hour, one day at a time. When every day heralds another horror on the local and world stage, to look farther would be foolhardy. No, it's trim the sails, tie down the wheel, and weather the storm as best we can.
But that's tomorrow's problem. Today? The sun is out, the temps are rising, and the tiniest sliver of hope threatens our future. Who knows if it will play out, but if it does, well, you'll be the first to know.
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