today's flavor: S L I G H T D E P R E S S I O Nanxiety : 1
agitation : 1
I gave up another job shortly after getting accepted. I went through a moderately challenging writing test, weeks of training and two qualifying exams, and quit after one day at work.
The reason in a nutshell: It was too stressful for me.
Look, I have no fear of stress. I'm not a softie. On good days, I eat stress for breakfast. But let me just dissect this particular sort of stress that I would prefer to have none of.
To begin with, I had my doubts whether this was going to be the kind of job I wanted to do. It seemed easy enough and challenging enough. But it kind of entailed writing articles (i.e., "making up stories") that may or may not be entirely true. It didn't sit so well with me to contribute to the half-true flotsam and jetsam floating around cyberspace to prey on unsuspecting Google searchers. I was to be paid to churn out spam. Not exactly something to be proud of.
But even with that concern, I went through the training and decided to stick to it. It was a paying job after all that could gain a hefty chunk of income, it was worth trying out.
And then, game on, time for the first day of work. I needed to reach a quota of 10 articles with 200 words each. Not so difficult really. There were some keywords I needed to creatively insert, and that really wasn't so hard.
But it's really much more complex with the obsessive-compulsive behavior.
So yes, my current slight dysphoric / slight depressive wave came with OCB. Which meant it took me an hour and a half to compose a single short article. Frustrating. An hour and half of typing and retyping and rechecking and paraphrasing and rewording and linking and un-linking and re-linking. For one freaking article. We were actually required to work only two hours a day, but I apparently needed more than that.
And on my first day I ended my day at 2 a.m., and I didn't even reach half my quota. And given the active and obsessive frequency my mind was on that day, I dreamt of keywords and compositions. That is, whenever I got some sleep -- my "sleep" was too broken and unrestful to be called "sleep". Darnit. I was even writing an article for a high-end perfume brand in my half-sleep.
And the next morning, because I hardly got any rest, I was so tightly wound-up. Not in the least bit a good way. I had writing articles on my mind. I was obsessing about doing better, writing faster. I had a major case of the Ants.
And because I didn't get much sleep, my skin broke out, red and sore. Therefore, seeing myself in the mirror was a cause for even more stress, because I so detest being ugly. The more I saw my rashes, the more stressed I got, and the more I broke out in rashes. Oh, the vicious cycle of stress-related inflammations.
Rashes. That's a warning signal. I have noted through the years that when my skin breaks out, it's often due to chronic stress. Well, maybe not this time.
But I still wanted to do the job at that point. I had faith in myself that I could maybe develop a technique to
But then I soon realized that I had a lot of chores and other regular tasks, and that I will have to go through this needless madness every single day now. In the middle of mixing pancake batter for breakfast, I cracked like the eggs I just mixed with the flour. Meltdown in the morning. Cooking pancakes have so often in the past triggered something in me. I guess it's because they just won't stay round the way I want them to. Of all the talents I am so proud of, making pancakes is just not one of them. I got so frustrated, the Hubby had to take over the cooking.
Still I proceeded to work after breakfast. But because I wasn't well-rested the previous night, my allergic rhinitis acted up in the worst way. The worst way. Congestion, running, migraines; itchiness in the eyes, ears, nose, throat and mouth. My eyes and nose swelled up, and for the first time ever, so did my lips. Maybe I ate something I'm allergic to. Maybe I ate too many eggs between today's breakfast and yesterday's impromptu meals. To think that my face was already covered in rashes when I woke up. I took four Loratadine 10mg, and it didn't help much.
I thought about what I ate the past week: it's a whole hurricane of histamines. Tuna, chicken, chicken, chicken, chicken, mango, egg, egg, egg, egg, egg, egg. Well done. -_-
I managed to write one more article in my miserable condition. Took me two hours. After that first masterpiece for the day (in which I endorsed a product I have never tried or even heard of), I had to take a break to take a shower that I hoped would wash out all the dust or pollen or hay or egg that was making me all sneezy and itchy. And then I forced myself to take a nap, in case it would help to restore my resistance. But I was too antsy to sleep, too sick to stay awake.
In my highly agitated state, I emailed HR to say I'd like to quit. I gave the job a try, but I don't think I can reach the quota while doing all of the other stuff I still need to do.
Off the record, I do want the extra income, but I'm not willing to torture myself in this way every day henceforth. I don't have to. I'm not desperate yet. It's a job I don't mind doing, except I think the daily quota is too high for me. If I can't come up with the pre-agreed amount of spam, I'll end up getting fired anyway, so I might as well get off now and save my pride. There are other jobs out there, I am sure - more enjoyable jobs that preferably don't involve fabricating semi-truths.
I don't mind stress, but some stress is unnecessary. And particularly because I'm bipolar, I have to be careful to constantly keep stress at a manageable level. The rashes are a good sign I'm at a danger point, and the wise thing to do is get more rest.
