The Daily Durvy

And by “Elfing” I mean “fucking.”

This week I started my training at my new job. I now work at an assissted living facility for mentally disabled adults. It is one of the toughest, emotionally draining, and rewarding jobs I’ve ever had the pleasure of taking part in.

My first day of training consisted of reading about health and safety procedures, house policy, and the rights of the developmentally disabled. While house procedure is about as interesting as, well, house procedure, the rights section was much more, well, lively.

There was a lot of information on “people-first” language. For example, a person is not retarded. A person has a developmental disability or has a medical diagnosis of mental retardation. It’s the difference between saying that your friend has cancer or that your friend is cancerous. It’s a difference that everyone seems to see when talking about cancer, but not when talking about mental retardation.

There is also a bill of rights of sorts for the developmentally disabled. Most of the rights are so basic and such common sense that it is actually embarrassing that they need to be written out. For example, “You have the right to wear the clothing that you choose to wear” and “You have the right to unopened mail and private space” seem so simple yet are so often ignored when dealing with any person with a disability. Why wouldn’t every person have a right to clothing or mail? I mean, if I have the right to wear some of the outfits I manage to leave my apartment in, I’m sure everybody can. Most of the people I now work with are much snappier dressers then most of the people I go to school with.

But what really pisses me off is the wage difference. Minimum wage is $8/hour in California. However, there are “special circumstances” for persons with disabilities (both physical and mental):

There are also exceptions for employees who are mentally or physically disabled, or both, and for nonprofit organizations such as sheltered workshops or rehabilitation facilities that employ disabled workers. Such individuals and organizations may be issued a special license by the Division of Labor Standards Enforcement authorizing employment at a wage less than the legal minimum wage. Labor Code Sections 1191 and 1191.5

(Quoted from Department of Industrial Relations)

Some of the people I’ve met in the last few weeks work in such situations. They are paid a percentage of the minimum wage, based on their productivity. For example, if a person is calculated to be working at a 50% productivity rate, they only get paid $4/hour. I’m sorry, it’s called a minimum wage for a reason. As in it is the lowest a person should be paid.

What is so horrible about being paid lower than the minimum wage is that it assumes that you are not a real person, worth the lowest wage a person is supposed to be paid. Doesn’t this seem like the right to wear clothing you choose and the right to private mail? It does to me.

Sometimes, in a fit of fear or panic or confidence or simply stupidity, I get so passionate that I actually do something completely moronic.

For example, I decided at the beginning of last year that I was a grown up and needed a nice, decorated grown-up apartment. I spent $250, 5 days, and most of my new roommate’s good will to paint not only my bedroom, but our living/dining room. It’s one of those “labors of love” that you look back on as a “labor of stupid” or a “labor of wasted time and energy and money.” And to think, it could have been a “labor of cheap rum and diet coke.” These are things that college teaches you. You know, the things that you’ll actually use later in life.

I have also been known to put “easy” papers off for the last minute. Take right now. I have a term paper due at 8:00am. As in, 8:00ASS-CRACK MORNING. Have I started? No. I’m not sure if this is a fit of confidence or stupidity, but I feel like I’ll know that by about 2:00 this morning when I’m struggling to write a conclusion about the heteronormative queerness present in Giovanni’s Room.

However, sometimes, in fits of sadness or fear or debilitating nihilism, I manage to do some very smart things. Some very brilliant things, even.

Over the past year, I have felt increasingly… not normal. At first I thought new birth control was making me cry all the time. I mean, pumping myself full of hormones seemed kind of stupid at the time anyway, and seemed to be the likely culprit. Who needs all that estrogen anyway? Every doctor I went to said the crying would stop after a few months. But after a few months, the crying didn’t stop.

I stopped sleeping and eating properly. When I did sleep, it was only during the day and only when I had something pressing to do. Nighttime was sleep’s worst enemy. I tried everything and anything; tea, television, exercise before bed, books, boring books, my roommate’s psych studies (DO YOU KNOW HOW HORRIBLE IT IS READING PSYCH STUDIES?!), having Alex spend the night, sleeping with Alex at Alex’s place, sleeping by myself at Alex’s place, the list goes on and on. I would start falling asleep just as day would break, and sleeping until dinnertime. And when I did sleep, I couldn’t get out of bed the next morning; the thought of people and school and simply eating made me curl up in pain and cry.

The list went on and on; I just stopped being happy. I stopped enjoying just about everything. I stopped writing here on my blog, I stopped drawing and I stopped watching TV. I just stopped living, to some extent. Doing something made me feel like I was wasting my time and doing nothing made me feel like a failure. Thoughts of suicide and running away and escape consumed me; and I finally went to see a therapist, with much prompting from Alex.

We talked, I cried, and then today I went to see a psychiatrist referred to me by the therapist. She asked me every invading question you can think of, complimented me on being so aware and articulate, and then prescribed me Prozac. I start taking them in the morning, and I have appointments with both her and my therapist when I get back from winter break.

I’m getting help, and I’m hoping, praying, living the need that it works. I think it will, because sometimes, in fits of extreme sadness and loneliness and with the help of Alex and TBRE and everyone else that lets me cry in front of them, I manage to do some smart things. Some brilliant things.

This past summer while I was home I ran into an old friend from High School.

We had lost touch after junior year, and I was pleasantly surprised when she was my waitress at a little diner in my hometown.

The first thing I noticed about her was how much weight she had lost since I had last seen her. She was never overweight by any standards, but when I saw her in July she was thiiiiiin. Like I-had-some-awful-parasite-and-couldn’t-eat-for-months-thin. But of course she still had boobs. The hot ones always keep their boobs.

The whole time Alex and I were at lunch, I was wondering how she lost all that weight. I’ll admit, I was jealous. In fact, I went in wanting a cheeseburger with extra fat and sat down and ordered a salad. (Well, no. Only bunny rabbits eat salad. But I did order a wrap with some sort of baby weed in it.) Finally, when she brought us our check I asked her how she lost weight.

Her response? She had gone to Africa and gotten a parasite. She couldn’t eat for months.