[1009] Small But

I’ve been re-consumed by the idea of “all the little things adding up” when it comes to points of failure, corruption, and propaganda. Most pointedly, my thoughts are stoked by my job. I extremely hate being talked to like I’m “family” or getting “rewarded” for “all the hard work you do!” I hate stupid company-branded crap piling up around the office or handed to me with a disingenuous grin. I hate “incentives” that are less than you might make mowing a sizeable lawn offered in exchange for your time around the holidays. I’m absolutely disgusted by the ongoing pageantry around the word “help” and the incredible heights of self-delusion that fuels ruthless capitalism under the guise of help.

I’ve worked for Groups about one month longer than I worked at the prison. It is, by far, the cushiest job I’ve ever had, and that is by design. It is experiencing the “green wave” of discovering just how many people are really addicted in the areas they set up shop. They are desperate for counselors, supervision, and ways to appease their providers, while they rake up money, open new locations, and put out “fun” engagement and training videos to try and corral the workforce onto the same page.

In my time the company has gone from using the idea of “harm reduction” to engage in ongoing conversations to keep unfit members in the program to jettisoning those members after 35 days of no contact and courting as many new ultra-unsuitable people as they possibly can. They’ve relaxed any standard of attendance. They’ve increased the number of pills or films members can be prescribed at one time. They stretch the staff they have too thin, don’t follow-up when concerns are relayed, look the other way when a counselor, perhaps, facilitates a misuse of medication (aka a drug deal), and personally involves themselves in all manner of places they don’t belong [real, perpetual problem and example.]

My company enables addicts to find a new “normal” or “comfort” in skirting by and using their medication as a new dependent source of their emotional well-being. Do you have to be on time? Not really. Do you have to be there every week? Again, not really. Do you have to follow any rules? You barely have to refrain from cussing at and threatening the office managers, several times over months, before you even illicit a stern warning.

My company pays its counselors just enough to be first-world poor if you don’t have any real bills, and asks just little enough that you recognize you’re getting “survivable” for “bare minimum” effort. It’s a deal most people in my role, who’ve gone through huge workloads and endless asks are want to give up. I can’t say I’ve worked a single “hard” day beyond whatever frustration I stoked about some pithy details in the moment. I work 4 days a week, 2 in the office. I’m forced to waste gas going to the office for, theoretical not actual, in-person groups.

If I wanted absolutely nothing for my life but to swallow company lines and collect the world’s easiest paycheck, I’d never leave this job. They need me. I can meet the expectations in my sleep. If I spent less on shows or building out my house, I’d have a decent savings in a short amount of time.

But that’s the thing. I can’t stand the lies. I can’t stand being offered a Groups-branded gym bag or an opportunity for them to donate $50 to a charity of my choice. I can’t stand talking to someone clearly in perpetual crisis week in and week out as though they are hearing me when they require a deeper level of care and intervention. I can’t stand not being able to dictate my time in what I think are considerably more efficient and respectful ways. I can’t stand that I’m not making so much money that I could donate $500 or $5000 to any cause I deemed fit when I pleased. I hate being told how grateful and thankful you are and not having it backed up with me feeling anything but dread and resentment for the cog nature of my existence in your greedy and ambivalent machine masquerading as some noble savior and not a pill factory.

I hate it so much that I’m actively searching for the words of my resignation. I’m responding to emails from the CEO with, “Please remove me from messages like these as they cause a severe amount of stress.” I hate that they have a $2000 leash on me that I’d certainly try to fight having to pay back as a “sign-on bonus” if you don’t leave within a year of getting hired. Who the fuck does that? What ethical company needs to leverage your loyalty? It’s not a sign-on bonus. Where the fuck do you get off calling it one?

But you get comfortable doing so when you submit to the dictates of capital. When you want “bodies” and you call them “members” to better obscure what level of treatment patients and addicts need, you’re a fucking joke, a liar, and ashamed of yourself, but figure you don’t have to think about all that because so many people are employing your fake ass language to do the heavy lifting in avoiding accountability. I can’t carry that fucking water for you. I can’t allow myself to be compelled by the same bullshit.

A big ass, a little ass, they both shit. The shit smells. A small lie, a big lie, it leaves a smelly dirty trail through your mind, your words, your relationships, and your capacity to orient in the direction you want to go. I want to be able to confidently assert my behavior, the reasons I do things, and what I envision for the future. I don’t want to be constantly saying, “Yes, but!...” as to whether what I’m doing is moral, “helpful,” “truthful,” or anything else that would provoke a strong instinct in any given honest person when it appears to be going wrong. I’m not a black and white thinker and can weigh all sorts of uncomfortable variables and negotiated positions, but I can’t break my capacity for doing so by entertaining lies I know to be lies. Simple things like don’t invite the inebriated person into the sobriety group. Or, when someone threatens to kill your staff, they’re not still appropriate for this level of care.

I reassert, I’m not a martyr, I’m not a cheerleader for you by default, and I’m not a battered-wife. I’m not going to practice what it takes to embody any of those things no matter how many times I’m offered. I work for you, you are not me, I am not yours. I work for myself first, and as that sensibility feels more and more threatened, I will no longer work for you.