Social Networking: Why?

I wish it weren't so, but truly I suck at social networking. I sucked at networking when it was just business-oriented. I sucked at networking when it was a school dance or party. It's not that I'm a wallflower or pathetically shy; it's just that I can't get myself to care. Even when I know I should do.

Last night I went to a Twitter meetup in Sacramento. After years of local people saying to me, "Blog? What's that?" and "Twitter? What's that?", the Web 2.0 scene has finally come to Sacramento. I am, of course, thrilled. Or think I should be.

But there is something about all those earnest people Getting Acquainted! Exchanging Cards! Sharing Business Concepts that creates in me a massive case of Don't Give A Shit!

But I should give a shit. Because I've got some business concepts worth sharing. And I've got cards to exchange that go with those concepts. And really, I go to these events ready to meet and greet and.....

Maybe that's the problem. Why do I go to these events? Actually, it's the first thing, the Getting Acquainted, that draws me. Top in my list of Life Goals is "Know Interesting People." After that is, "Have Good Conversations." And "Laugh A Lot"--that's probably number three. Not remotely near the top is Meet People Who Can Help Me In My Business. If it happens, that's a bonus.

Last night I found myself doing a circuit around the perimeter of attendees. Round and round I went, looking for a likely person to Get Acquainted with. Mostly they were all very busy doing what they had come to do: trolling for contacts, honing their Elevator Spiel. Every once in a while I would stop and introduce myself--there were definitely some people there who were Interesting People--and we would chat for a while. And then, they'd go their way. And I'd make another circuit of the room.

I think I was overwhelmed by the intensity of the Desire in that room. And maybe, depressed. Because shouldn't I have that same Desire? And if I don't, does that mean I'm doomed to fail?

I'm An Adult, Now What?

That's a subhead on an article in the Washington Post that Catherine Thatch over at [The Seventh Notebook] sent me the link to today. I won't give you the title, because Catherine and I agreed it was rather on the lame side (I think it may have been written by a junior intern), but I will, of course, link to it. It was written by Douglas LaBier, who identifies himself, thusly: "As a psychotherapist and a member of the booming midlife generation, I've heard many expressions of midlife distress...." His thesis is that midlife is what happens when you finally grow up. It hits some people hard; others barely at all.

"Psychologically, midlife is the portal into full adulthood. Successfully crossing that portal involves addressing the question that lies at the source of most adult emotional conflicts: 'What's the purpose of my life?'"

But exacerbating that search for meaning is the fact, LaBier says, the our forties are when the emotional defenses that we successfully used in the past to shore us up are now, much like our bodies, starting to sag. It's this collision of the Search and the Sagging, as it were, that result in the midlife crisis. Some people start over and wrestle their way to new meaning in their lives. Others, says LaBier, more or less accept their situation and try, usually unsuccessfully, to define it as happiness.

Which are you doing? Me? I'm definitely one who starts over. I'm on my third or fourth career: journalist, English prof/grad student, therapist--and now I guess I'm back to journalism, of sorts. But what about you? Are you looking for a second or third act? And this time--whaddya want to be when you grow up?

I Quit

At ten something this morning, I called up the Boss Lady's boss. I didn't know what I was going to say until I said it. "I can't do this anymore." I elaborated a bit, a short version of my post last night. She was neither surprised nor upset. In the least. Clearly I saved her some disagreeableness of her own--like telling me that I would not be continuing to teach the Parent/Teen class the next time. I said it for her and she agreed, "Yes, we are going with another teacher next time." I knew it when she pulled in Patty Pigtails two weeks ago, but when I asked her then, she just said that Patty P. needed more hours.

Permit me a short disquisition on how much I FUCKING HATE THAT SORT OF BULLSHIT. Christ, if people who counsel others on "keeping it real" can't keep it real themselves--! But why should I be surprised? I know that most of us (present company definitely included) got into the therapy business because we once sat in the client's chair and thought, "Hey, I could do that." That being the case, it makes perfect sense that most of us still qualify for the DSM in one way or another.

So--now what?

Well, that's the end of my career as a Marriage & Family Therapist Intern. I've burnt enough bridges and there are so few of them here that I can say, to slightly change the title of the Julia Phillips book, I'll Never Work As An MFT-I In This Town Again. Knowing that was part of my calculations as to how I wanted to handle this situation. Am I sad about that? Somewhat. But relieved as well. And excited. That I can say, for the first time, stand up straight, breathe in and admit: I failed at this. Despite my best intentions, I couldn't do it. Instead of being humiliated, I feel liberated.

I'm in one of those periods in my life when the pieces that have been hurtling through the air are beginning to slow down, to seem to be wafting into some sort of discernible pattern. Call it the jigsaw puzzle of the rest of my life--and doesn't ByJane seem a good place to work at solving it?

Wednesday's Child Is Woeful

It's a tough day, my Wednesdays. The weekly meeting. I dread it. I go in armed to the gills with good intentions to keep my mouth shut. Sometimes I'm successful. It doesn't matter, though, because somehow the boss lady will find a way to shoot me down, and invariably I leave feeling like a two inch piece of crud. She doesn't like me, the boss lady. Perhaps it's some atavistic thing; maybe my pheromones clash with hers. More likely, and this too is atavistic, I'm too much of an alpha being for her. Only one strong dog allowed, and she is most definitely it. The rest of us must fall in line, chorus our yelps in concert with hers and bare our necks from time to time to show submission. I would do it if I could, but with me, it's just not believable. One of my colleagues told me she's deliberately played dumb, so the the boss lady won't pick on her. That's smart--but somehow it's beyond the range of my dramatic skills.

And/or -- I don't want to. One would think that in the business we're in, authenticity would be prized. One would think that, wouldn't one.

Tonight I came home, squeezed my dog, and had a glass of wine. Wine definitely helps. My chin is not scraping the floor, as it has in weeks gone by. I don't expect to be immobilized for the next 36 hours by a deep, dark depression--as I have been in weeks gone by.

Tomorrow morning I'll get up and decide how to deal with this situation. Suck it up? Cry uncle? What would you do?

C is for Clients

...and yes, that's what we actually call them. Or you, as the case may be. Unless we have the magic Doctor in front of our name when we might also call them (or you) patients. Often we just refer to them by time, as in "My ten o'clock." But never by diagnosis, since that is verboten, not to mention forbidden, by the rules of the various boards that license us.

...and yes, I'm seeing them again.

...and yes, I'm questioning myself again.

The clients that I thought I wanted to treat when I was in school--the poor, the needy, the really fucked-up--well, maybe I was wrong. Maybe when I insisted that the one kind of client I never wanted was the Middle Class Woman Who Whined, maybe anyone with an ounce of understanding about things psychodynamic could see that this was a huge case of countertransference. Which none of my instructors thought to mention to me.

Basically what it means is that I didn't want to treat myself. Or people like me. Who I seem to think are weak, sniveling people with weak, sniveling issues to deal with. Like wobbly self-esteem and shitty mates and tedious workplace traumas. No, I wanted the real thing: Bring me your psychotic, your medicated, your traumatized, personality-disordered huddled masses--and I will wave my torch of empathy and grant them instant calm, if not bliss.

Well, ha! And ha! again. The huddled masses--they are so incredibly complicated, not to mention relatively hopeless, and sometimes scarey. They live in neighborhoods that are alien, in houses that are so tiny and ramshackle as to be barely there. If they live in houses at all, because remember, my very first client was a schizophrenic homeless woman.

I loved her. Not literally, but all the parts of her that were middle class, and dealing with a overbearing mother. But not so much when she started getting into the groups of martyred soldiers who were following her down the street, beckoning to her from doorways, trying to entice her into a life of sin. I knew delusions when I heard them. But from a middle class woman? Was it possible--? Nah, it was just me, middle class me, having a major countertransference issue.

Countertransference is a good thing and a bad thing. It's part of what enables psychotherapy at all, but damn, I'd rather not have my shit forced in my face where I can't ignore it. But my choices, it seems, are either to face it--or find an excellent excuse when I don't want to be a therapist after all.

Things About Which I Might Write

Christ, my grammar is good. No dangling participles for me, nosireebob. (Picks nose, shuffles feet, clears throat)

1. I sent two--count 'em TWO--job apps on Monday, faxed them that is, and I have not heard from either. Such is my job search and thus it is going. D. posits that I might be a trickle or two hasty in expecting to hear back from them, but jesus, if they aren't dazzled by my resume and stunned by my letter, then what gives????? I expect major responses when I speak, people.

2. I signed up for BlogHer'07 today. I'm not eager or anything. Such is my social life and thus it is going, or not, as the case may be. I booked my hotel (the W) ages ago and got a double should anyone want to share (please send your Slam Book from high school as No Creeps Allowed. Just Nerds.)

3. This time I'm bringing cards. And t-shirts, the ones referencing Descartes: Blogito Ergo Sum that I'm having made up. I'll put them on the site when they're ready.

4. Blurbomat has a great photo on his blog, a sky shot, about which I commented, "Fan-fucking-tastic!" I am not only a grammarian of exceptional note; I am also articulate and well-spoken. If you like his, I refer you to mine on Flickr, which are pretty fan-fucking-tastic too if I say so myself. Which I just did.

5. I traded a necklace for a felted purse on LeahPeah's Trade A Craft site. This was our first trade, and we all shuffled around in corners fixing our hair and clearing our throats. Till one brave soul told me she liked mine and did I like hers and I did and we did and it was good. Go look. Join. Post photos. Be good.

6. Speaking of which, sort of, anybody else out there watching Work Out on Bravo channel? I'm trying to figure out what the demographics for the show are: gay women? straight men who like gay women? workoutbuffs hoping for a tip or two? Me, I watch it because it takes place in West Hollywood and makes me feel like I'm still a part of the real world there. I also like Jackie, although not in that way. Not that there's anything wrong with it. She's really brash and out-there (which I mean in the most non-gay way), but there is also a sweetness about her, a vulnerability that makes her seem like she'd be someone I'd want to know.

7. I have just drained the dregs of my morning coffee. And it's only 3 p.m. About tea time, yes?

Job Search - 2007

I have been doing this since 1994. Then I was doing the official MLA Job Search. That is the Grand Inquisition of all job searches, as any of you who have or tried to have college teaching positions well know. The first year, I got one interview; the second, a job at East LA College, which I took. I thought that job would be my last, since it was supposed to go to a tenure track position, but the gods or my karma or just pissy department politics got involved, and I was burped out on the job market again. The years ensued and--geeze, haven't I gone into this a million times before? Suffice to say, I am, once again, doing a job search.

And loathing it. Okay, loathe is a bit strong, maybe. Distasteful better?

I am applying for two kinds of jobs, naturally, to match my two kinds of Master's degrees. The Marriage and Family Therapist Intern jobs, of which there are few to none, at least that aren't the same job that I just left. And, yes, the English Lit teaching jobs, which devolves to composition in its various guises.

I've been out of that job market for over ten years, so I'm somewhat queasy on details like, oh, recommendations from former colleagues or department chairs. This is why I find the task so distasteful. Why do I have to jump through all these hoops? Why can't they just look at my resume and see that I've taught a shit-load of comp classes of all levels (and speak so nicely, as well) and wave me over to the In pile?

Day Seventeen...

...and I'm definitely flagging. Not so much as this fellow or Stacy over at Jurgen Nation, who bailed from NaBloPoM in part because she realized that she was losing readers. But I find myself posting later and later in the day, and with much less zest or enthusiasm or whatever the hell you want to call it. It's a tough nut, writing a daily column. Ask anyone who does it. It really is a job, and since this month that's how I'm trying to treat By Jane--hey y'all, I gotta go to work.

I can't say if my numbers are down, because I just got my counter. But really, any above four would be an improvement. In terms of building an audience, I am working counter to all advice, which is to specialize in something. However, I truly, as my header states, have never been able to focus on one thing. My attention is multi-directional (doesn't that sound important). It's the reason, actually, that I became a journalist.

I never could decide what I wanted to be when I grew up--a doctor loomed large until I proved miserable at science. When that became clear, I was already in college and it seemed more important to be succeeding at a social life, rather than any profession. Not, you should imagine, that I was particularly good at that--my mouth has always proceeded me--but I tried, goodness me, did I ever.

My lack of focus was apparent in my choice of majors. I was for three years a Theatre Arts major and then in my last year, switched to Philosophy. I just kinda took the courses I was interested in, without any sense that they were supposed to prepare me for something. So I ended up with a bunch of English courses, a clot of Creative Writing courses (thank you, Monte Culver), all the Theatre courses I had amassed, plus the Philosophy I had to take for the major, and then there was that lump of Studio Art courses. I am nothing, if not well-rounded. That has served me well in life, even if it's meant I never have Fulfilled My Potential. Which depending on the day, either depresses me or pleases me.

Given that history, it is obvious I am incapable, no matter the well-meaning advice, of limiting this blog to one or two topics. I'd bore the living daylights out of myself, let alone the four of you who are faithful readers.

In Which I Correct Myself

I misspoke. This isn't my penultimate free Sunday. It is my penultimate Sunday that I go to bed saying, "oh, shit, I've got to get up and go to work tomorrow..." It is the penultimate Sunday before all of my days are free--once again.

I gave my notice two weeks ago. My final day is October 31. I lasted just over six months. This seems to be about average at my agency. In my letter of resignation, I carefully worded it thusly: "I cannot do the job in the way I believe it must be done without putting in considerable overtime, and that is something I'm unwilling to do." What I tell people is this: "The thing about working for a non-profit is that what you give up in pay, you get back in emotional rewards. This job can't be done in a way that would give me the requisite emotional rewards without putting in considerable overtime, and that is something...yadayadayada."

The reality is that the people in charge are clueless about how to engender loyality in their employees. They talk the talk but don't walk the walk. I wonder if they're even curious about why they keep training people who quit in a couple of months. My manager says, "It's a very hard job and a good fit for few people." Well, um, might you want to change that a wee bit? Because Sacramento doesn't have an endless pool of therapists and social workers--and, guys! you're quickly working your way through all of us.

So come November 1, I shall return to my former state of being, not much older, but a whole lot wiser about me and my place in my world.