Monday, April 23, 2007
One thing I know: life is shifting, and we’re evolving as human beings every day. In my ninth year of recovery, I hit a plateau in the insurance field. Things weren’t working out, so I thought a trip to therapy would be the answer. Also, I had turned 30 in 1996, and I felt like my life was in limbo.
The counselor I saw at this pivotal time in my recovery had a day job as a career coach, and when I told him I might be laid off yet again, he gave me the MBTI, a personality test, and a vocational assessment. I found out I’m an INTJ and would make a good librarian, so I applied to the three major programs in New York City, and chose Pratt Institute.
Year Nine: Ending the Cycle was a time when I began to let go of outdated perceptions, outgrown clothes and unworkable relationships. In this time, nothing I took on was meant to be permanent. I was clearing out the past and making room for new possibilities.
Every day, I got up and went to a job that sucked the soul out of me. Knowing that within two years I’d be in school helped me continue to save money. I lived at home, and was able to send in the $200 tuition deposit for Pratt. I didn’t know how I’d afford the tuition, so I decided to take out the bare minimum in terms of student loans. I also qualified for a $600 tuition waiver each semester.
In my ninth year, I sorted things out. I took out the neatly folded assumptions that I’d packed away in my mind, and started to challenge them. When I was in my 20s, my greatest goal was to find a job and live independently. That accomplished, I knew there was more to do. Maybe because I’m a fidget and can’t sit still, I will always be in action or on the move.
I believe the greatest gift you can give yourself as a recovering person is the ability to make your way in the world. In my 20s I was sensitive, yet hadn’t learned to bluff. I cried in the ladies’ room at work, and I cried on the train ride home. I wasn’t suited to work in business.
My creativity stifled, I couldn’t grow as a person if I kept pushing down what I really wanted to do: publish in magazines and write books. I’d known since I was seven years old that I wanted to be a writer. Now it was time to find the career that would enable me to freelance in my spare time.
To have a successful recovery, you have to do what you love, often. Maybe singing is your thing. Or sculpting. Or going to the library and browsing books. I didn’t know when I was 22 and first diagnosed that I could make a career out of what happened to me, or get paid to do what I love: working with books and people and knowledge.
When I was depressed and attended a clubhouse, another person told me I was just a yuppie who accessed services because it was the trendy thing to do. At the time, I wore black Levis and a navy turtleneck. “You come into a session and blast others with your feelings,” he said, as if my feelings weren’t important, or I wasn’t justified in seeking help. His comment hurt me, and I remembered it all these years.
The counselor I saw at this pivotal time in my recovery had a day job as a career coach, and when I told him I might be laid off yet again, he gave me the MBTI, a personality test, and a vocational assessment. I found out I’m an INTJ and would make a good librarian, so I applied to the three major programs in New York City, and chose Pratt Institute.
Year Nine: Ending the Cycle was a time when I began to let go of outdated perceptions, outgrown clothes and unworkable relationships. In this time, nothing I took on was meant to be permanent. I was clearing out the past and making room for new possibilities.
Every day, I got up and went to a job that sucked the soul out of me. Knowing that within two years I’d be in school helped me continue to save money. I lived at home, and was able to send in the $200 tuition deposit for Pratt. I didn’t know how I’d afford the tuition, so I decided to take out the bare minimum in terms of student loans. I also qualified for a $600 tuition waiver each semester.
In my ninth year, I sorted things out. I took out the neatly folded assumptions that I’d packed away in my mind, and started to challenge them. When I was in my 20s, my greatest goal was to find a job and live independently. That accomplished, I knew there was more to do. Maybe because I’m a fidget and can’t sit still, I will always be in action or on the move.
I believe the greatest gift you can give yourself as a recovering person is the ability to make your way in the world. In my 20s I was sensitive, yet hadn’t learned to bluff. I cried in the ladies’ room at work, and I cried on the train ride home. I wasn’t suited to work in business.
My creativity stifled, I couldn’t grow as a person if I kept pushing down what I really wanted to do: publish in magazines and write books. I’d known since I was seven years old that I wanted to be a writer. Now it was time to find the career that would enable me to freelance in my spare time.
To have a successful recovery, you have to do what you love, often. Maybe singing is your thing. Or sculpting. Or going to the library and browsing books. I didn’t know when I was 22 and first diagnosed that I could make a career out of what happened to me, or get paid to do what I love: working with books and people and knowledge.
When I was depressed and attended a clubhouse, another person told me I was just a yuppie who accessed services because it was the trendy thing to do. At the time, I wore black Levis and a navy turtleneck. “You come into a session and blast others with your feelings,” he said, as if my feelings weren’t important, or I wasn’t justified in seeking help. His comment hurt me, and I remembered it all these years.
