I was 20 years old, waiting alone in a government-funded room filled with kid’s toys and stickers on the wall. My eyes looked through the window blinds, across the field at the city skyline, wondering what my true potential really was.
The family trauma specialist came in to empower me in this damaged state with one-liner truisms and canned pop psychology. Any deep thoughts I had were quickly steered by her back into the conversational shallow water where she felt comfortable.
She looked like Harleen Quinzel, too hot to be a therapist, but I took the work seriously and never held back the cringe if I thought it was necessary for growth.
I told her I felt like a loser, like I’m behind, and I’m not becoming who I’m meant to be, and that I don’t blame it on the family tragedy that brought me here, I blame it squarely on myself because I believe I control my life.
She discouraged me from building agency and asked me to open up about my pain. I did and she rearranged words and phrases to try and get me to feel better by seeing myself as a blameless secondary victim of an awful crime.
I rejected her offer to see myself as a victim because the primary victim refused to call themself a victim. By adopting the label I’m selfishly making it about me and disempowering myself.
I wasn’t there to find myself and get closure. I was there to find power and agency. I was angry, young, ambitious, self aware, and full of testosterone.
I asked why my sessions are in a kids room, it felt humiliating. She told me it’s the only one available, so I understood it wasn’t deliberate and didn’t bring it up again.
I brought up my inability to catch up socially and financially with the other young adults. I wasn’t aware I had Autism yet, I just knew I was odd. She certainly didn’t clock it either.
She suggested I come back next week with a plan to fix one of those problems. I did her one better and planned to kill 2 birds with 1 stone.
“I applied for a door-to-door sales job” I announced proudly. She looked horrified. No, she looked like I told her I applied for the Aryan Brotherhood.
“I… really wouldn’t advise that route Patient Zero, it’s just… you’re… well… “ the pause lasted a while so I did her a favour and said “Not able for it?”
“It’s just that… you seem like quite a sensitive and bright young man and that job can be brutal and I just don’t want to see you get crushed by rejection, especially when you’ve been through so much.”
I know the code words for Retarded when I hear them, Bitch.
“Well I think it’s a good idea. I want to throw myself in the deep end and learn to swim.” I remarked.
“Well I admire your courage but I’ve known people who did that job and quit on their first day because of how brutal it is.”
She loved the word brutal.
“Ok but they were just looking for a job, but I’m looking for more. I’m looking for a transformation in the job.”
That must’ve set her off since her job was to enable transformation and it had been a few months of no measurable progress by doing things her way.
“I really think you should find something else to do.. do you like computers?” She pandered.
I forgot the rest. I just remember how glad I was I held my ground and did what was right for me.
With a brain full of hustle culture propaganda, I put on my tailored suit and harassed people in their homes, talking them into buying stuff they didn’t want and remaining unfazed when they politely told me to fuck off.
That job gave me the keys to the normie kingdom.
It gave me skills in 2 months that would’ve taken her 2 decades to impart on me.
It gave me the courage to get after it and shoot my unlikely shot.
It gave me the reality slap of how much appearance actually does matter.
It gave me the confidence to small talk randomers.
It gave me a skill and experience I used to get better and better jobs.
It gave me the confirmation that sometimes the experts are fuckwits and you gotta follow through on your gut and stick to your own plan.
It gave me a taste of personal integrity paying off.
Thanks for reading.
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