Time and I don’t mix. Or at least it seems to pass faster than I can keep up with it. I haven’t posted something here in twelve months. A small part of me can’t believe that much time has passed. Another, larger, part of me is all too familiar with the phenomenon. It happens all too often in other areas — such as when communicating with friends and even with pastimes such as reading — but I feel I should apologise and offer some explanation as to how this happened.
What has happened since I last posted?
Well.
Not too long before I stopped posting, I was referred to a local group for therapy, which focused on distress tolerance and emotional regulation. It also covered a few other related subjects. I had learned a few skills previously, but this group went into much more detail. I even had homework to work on between sessions. I spent a lot of time working on that homework and it paid off in the end. It also helped that there were a few people to discuss the material with until it started to sink in.
I attended this group once a week until the end of October.
More importantly, I landed a job at the end of June and started the next month. I had a short weekend to get what I needed prepared for the first shift. It was the first official job I’ve ever had and I have the hours I spent learning distress tolerance and emotional regulation skills to thank for the opportunity; I’d never managed to make it passed the interview stage before and I almost never made it to the interview stage in the first place.
But this time?
I left the interview with the job in the bag.
I couldn’t contain the excitement I felt. I was almost euphoric.
That euphoria lasted until I started the job and discovered that the job would be more stressful than I’d anticipated. Normally, I can deal with working in an office. I’d had several bouts of work experience in an office environment before landing this job. But this office seemed to be on steroids and I’m not sure that being the back office of a store was enough to explain it.
The office was saturated with stress and I can’t emphasise that enough. The office assistants were not paid enough for the amount of work being heaped on them each week. Honestly, I feel like those women deserve a spa weekend as a reward for all that hard work and dealing with such a high volume of stress.
I had a probation period of three months and I never seemed to get faster at working in that office. The managers knew I was working hard…but that wasn’t enough. Because I wasn’t fast enough to cope with the amount of work in the office.
Fair enough.
I can’t disagree with them on that.
But I’ll admit that I was terrified when I was informed that I’d be moving out to the tills before the probation period was even over. The stress levels I experienced went through the roof so fast. The mere idea of having to deal with customers on a regular basis was alarming. Having to make an active effort to be social with colleagues was exhausting on its own without having to add customers to the mix.
I was moved out to the tills around the end of August.
I put a brave face on and tried not to pass out from fear.
Fortunately, it turns out that I’m better at working a till swamped with customers than I am at working in an office on steroids. It was still exhausting, of course. Most of the shifts I worked were nine hours long and none of the till staff were provided with seats. Seated till operators are common where I’m from. So…this was something I had to adjust to and doing so wasn’t easy; struggling to eat dinner before crawling into bed was the most I could do on countless nights.
I blinked and it was Christmas.
Retail Christmas is the WORST.
Customers are so obnoxious and often treat retail staff like worthless servants. We’re not worthless and we’re not servants. We have emotions and we get tired. Sometimes we don’t know all the things we’re supposed to know because something slipped our minds. Retail staff deserve more respect and care from the people who wouldn’t have access to most of their necessities, or precious luxuries, without us — as the current situation in the world has proven.
And that…brings me to the present.
Dealing With The ‘Rona
I was on the verge of walking out of work in March. Work extended their opening hours while other stores were shortening them to limit exposure. Work wasn’t even providing personal protective equipment for the staff. We had to purchase our own. But the gloves I had at home weren’t allowed because the gloves were blue. This angered me to no end. It shouldn’t matter that the gloves were blue. Already, a few of us had to deal with the horror of being coughed or sneezed on when dealing with ignorant customers that didn’t even bother to cover their faces.
But I was even more upset that we were risking our health so that customers could heap their carts with cushions and lampshades — among other luxuries. None of these were essential items and I was pissed off.
We all were.
It wasn’t long until I felt unwell. I wasn’t sure I was sick at first. I didn’t feel too terrible and I’d had a contraceptive bar implanted recently, so I’d assumed what I was experiencing were side effects from having a foreign object inside me.
But…what I was experiencing didn’t leave and I started to feel worried that I might have contracted something at work. People at home tried to tell me that I was fine. That it wasn’t something to be concerned about. But I continued to feel unwell and then I reached a point where I couldn’t stop shivering at work. I went home sick and called the GP…who ordered me into isolation that evening and said that he’d contact the Covid-19 squad to arrange a test for me.
The test never materialised.
While I was isolating, the Health Service Executive changed its criteria for testing and the test the GP arranged was cancelled. I didn’t push for another test because I didn’t get worse. I remained at a consistent level until whatever I’d contracted started levelling off. Perhaps I had a milder form of the virus. Perhaps I didn’t. I don’t know. I won’t know until the HSE starts performing tests for antibodies.
Admittedly, testing for antibodies isn’t their top priority, which is understandable.
I can wait.
But I still want to know.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I emerged from isolation on the 5th of April and returned to work on the 8th. I returned to find a lot of things had changed. Suddenly, it didn’t matter what colour the gloves were. Masks were an option. There was even a bottle of sanitizer per member of staff. There were plexiglass barriers between the till operators and the general public!
Even more amazingly, 90% of the store was cordoned off and all the staff had been reduced to minimum contract hours to counteract the sudden loss of profit. I was shocked. And then I was amused because I learned that the reason was:
The cops — or Gardaí as we call them over here — showed up at the store at random and lost their shit because customers were bringing carts heaped with things that no one needs during a health crisis to the tills. Quickly, the customers were ordered to leave their carts and get out. The cops even threatened to force the store to close before providing a short list of items we were authorised to sell.
Which meant we couldn’t sell most of what we had in stock.
The non-essential stock just sits there — so close and still so far away, tempting whoever steps into the store.
Some customers have been understanding and have accepted the fact that we can’t undermine the cops and keep selling shit that hasn’t been approved. Other customers haven’t been so accepting or pleasant.
Those ones will just have to get over it and get over their own self-importance. It isn’t our fault that a handful of customers ruined it for the rest. If the general public had shown more restraint from the beginning, the mess we’re in wouldn’t be as bad as it is.
Good luck to all those dealing with the public right now. And most sincere thoughts to all the terrified Americans who have to deal with having an ignoramus for president while selfish fools protest the lockdown measures because of their desperation to have a haircut.
Take care and hold tough. Hopefully, we’ll make it out the other side.
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