Belonging

I remember thinking that I was too young to be working in an office with cubicles. I remember feeling as gray and dreary as the walls. I remember the musty smell of the slate-colored pop-up walls. I remember being uncomfortable in “business casual” clothing, tight in places I liked my clothes loose, and loose in places that I needed them to be tighter. I never had a tailor. I remember thinking that I did not look like myself in these jewel-toned clothes with the only design being conservative pinstripes. I remember that I didn’t feel like myself either. 

I remember everyone thinking that my energy was amusing, great—at first. I remember the smiles, the looks of “Oh, thank god, someone who is alive” on everyone’s faces. I remember getting the feeling after a week that they wished I would shut up, sit down, and do what I was told. I remember being told that I was being too loud, that I was disturbing the people around me. I remember feeling like a burden, a liability, in that cold, dead office. I remember feeling like I wasn’t the only one counting down the clock for when we could go home. I remember a half hour before the regular work day was over, random coworkers were walking around, literally saying that they were “trying to kill time.” I remember thinking that was hilarious, because it was true. I remember wondering if they got warning emails like I did whenever I left my desk for “too long,” or if they were scolded when they brought a book to read when they were finished with their work. But how many times can you ask for something to do and not get anything? Once I complained about it, I remember being told that I need to “pace myself.” 

I don’t remember anyone encouraging my free-thinking. I don’t remember anyone encouraging the colorful things I wanted to decorate my cube with, even when I offered to just make it all one solid color of neon blue. I don’t remember other people who had portraits with their dogs or their kids’ art hanging up getting in trouble. I remember other people talking about the hypocrisy of the office rules, and I don’t remember them fighting back like I did. I don’t remember anyone having my back when it all came down to it.

I don’t remember enjoying that job for very long at all. I don’t remember feeling guilty when I quit. I don’t remember anyone being surprised. I don’t remember anyone telling me that it was a mistake. I don’t remember leaving in a sullen mood on my last day, my head hanging down, the sky stormy overhead and the air thick with coming rain.

I remember knowing with rare certainty that I was not meant to be an automaton in a cubicle.


My list:

1. Old house, toddler tripping over the one stair between the kitchen and living room
2. Big black plastic garbage bags in the back of a pickup truck—moving furniture
3. Child of five being led by the hand to kindergarten classroom, not wanting to leave parents
4. Tornado moving through a neighborhood, tree falling on car, aftermath
5. Parents crying with police standing there
6. Funeral
7. Two little girls playing together
8. Two older girls playing together
9. Developing little girl walking down a hallway with books against her chest
10. Hanging with a group of girls in high school
11. Teenager wearing black, typing on a computer
12. Teenager crying, sleeping
13. Teenager going to a psychiatrist office
14. Pills spilling into an open hand
15. Teenager brighter, designing something on computer, or drawing
16. Young woman working in an office, coworkers look on with disapproval as she is loud and enthusiastic
17. Young woman working with puppies and cats
18. Young woman going to an actual campus
19. Going to Japan, speaking with Japanese
20. Washington, D.C., moving in
21. Moving out
22. Another depression episode—black and sleeping/laying on couch watching TV, listless
23. More therapy
24. More pills
25. UAB, writing, laughing