Six or eight months ago, maybe a year ago, I had a public meltdown at work.
Meltdown #1.
I started as a part timer working for the EVIL NH State Liquor Commission around four years ago. Hated the job, loved the guys I was working with.
We were five guys, approximately in the same age category, similar life experiences, similar sense of humor. Although the job fucking sucked we managed to laugh a lot.
Because the life I have built through mistakes, bad intuition, and overwhelming confusion, forces me to make decisions that go against my soul, that suffocate and torture my soul, I took a job as assistant manager of a liquor store. A full time job. Big fucking deal.
For the money. For the fucking money.
That took me away from Eric. Eric was the guy I connected with most deeply as a part timer. We used to laugh together so deeply. More than that, we had many conversations that emanated from our souls. Conversations that revealed our inner most fears and explored the frightening arc of our future.
We maintain contact. He calls me, I call him.
That particular day he called me in my new position in my new store. We talked, we laughed. Genuine laughter no holds barred.
As opposed to the phony, plastic, soul-painful character acting I have had to do every fucking day in this store since I first set foot inside the door.
When I hung up the phone I smashed my fist into a pile of boxes sitting next to me. Because the contrast between the reality of Eric and the pure bullshit of my current situation was unbearable.
The store was open. There were customers milling around. Customers who looked at me like a psycho hose beast.
Last Friday - Meltdown #2. A customer - known as a licensee because they either own and operate a restaurant or a convenience store - had a problem. Their transactions have to be tracked through customer order numbers. It's the law. It allows the state to track what they have purchased versus what they show in inventory.
A co-worked entered the sale without entering the licensee number.
Bad move. I had to fix it. Not easy because the IT system for the State of NH sucks and cannot make subtle differentiations.
I returned the sale but it did not equal the sale that was made. To make a long story short, as I tortured through this process, I had to call my boss's boss THREE times to get guidance.
As the licensee stood there. As 10 minutes became 30 minutes. He was angry. He was frustrated. I was angry. I was frustrated.
As I ascended the steps to the office for THE THIRD FUCKING TIME to call my boss's boss, I kicked a bunch of boxes. I slammed my fist into a metal cabinet. I said loudly "I hate this fucking job."
Once again there were customers in close proximity to witness all this. And co-workers. And the customer.
What fascinates me is this - in both situations I crossed the line between social acceptability and pure rage. Easily. Angrily. Seamlessly.
There was nothing in my head that said "You can't do this. It is unprofessional. It is unforgiveable."
I just did it.
Know why?
Because I was expressing EXACTLY how I felt in both situations. No filter, no consideration for how the assholes of the world expect me to, command me to, react.
There is a deep message to a meltdown like that. To two meltdowns like that.
The brain is telling you that you better resolve this situation before something drastic happens.
Like heart attack. Stroke. Getting fired. Quitting out of the blue and off the cuff.
Fortunately for all concerned I am docile. I recognize that the mistakes I have made have painted me into an inescapable corner.
I love the EVIL NH State liquor commission. I want to work for them for the rest of my life.
I want to die standing at a NH State liquor commission register with a plastic smile plastered on my face as my soul screams in agony at the suicide my decisions have wrought.
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