It’s been a very strange month.
Work is getting worse and weirder. They have switched me over to what they call a “case manager” position. In their world, “case manager” means little to no patient contact (except of course for the ridiculous calling on the weekends to tell them we’re available for you and please don’t use – a duty I have now been stuck with permanently, apparently – and the urine tests). This means that I spend most of my day doing paperwork. The Job has a crew of middle managers who change the paperwork monthly and reissue new rules and regulations monthly. This is not by design, but through (a) sheer incompetence; (b) the inability to stop fucking with things; and (c) unbridled greed – these changes are usually designed to get more money out of the patient or their insurance company.
I went through quite the experience on Friday when the “counselor supervisor,” a bimbo half my age with none of my experience, who looks like an overstuffed sausage, with a sickening Paula-Deen-like accent and similarly bleach-ruined hair, proceeded to tear apart my work case by case with the express purpose of making me feel like shit. She almost pulled it off. By the time I left that day I felt like I had been punched in the head repeatedly. I got home and went to bed. I woke up late, ate dinner with a woman who loves me and listens to me, and went out later to meet up with friends who love me for coffee. I realized that the insanity of The Job is their insanity, not mine. They are trying to give it to me, because they are insane, and they need everyone who works with them to be insane, to be regulated by the same bullying and brutality that they are given by their superiors on down the line.
(Never work for ex-military doctors wh0 were also formerly hospital administrators, by the way. Military doctors are assholes, and hospital administrators are fucking assholes. An ex-military doctor who was a hospital administrator is like a double asshole – twice as arrogant, twice as arrant a fool, twice as likely to believe that the more paper you generate, the better you are, and twice as likely to push people to the brink through intimidation, bullying and lies.)
In other words, as a dear friend reminded me some time back, there are people who will try to take your Black Heart away from you, who will attack you psychically to steal your soul because you have one and they don’t, because you have the Black Heart and they do not. My encounter with the counselor supervisor was exactly that, in retrospect; it was a psychic attack of the classic variety as described by Dion Fortune. I was not prepared for it coming from the source, an ignorant little hick from Baton Rouge who has little education and utter ignorance of the occult. But it was an attack all the same.
So, two things have to happen. I have to get another job, hopefully before Pantheacon, because I am not going to stay one minute longer at this place than I have to. It would take too long to explain how “Operations,” i.e. the ex-military doc/hospital administrator and his craven toadies, have fucked things up there at The Job in the past four months. It’s been horrible to watch, but I’m no longer going to be a party to it, especially if they try to make me into a paper pusher instead of a therapist.
The other thing that has to happen is that as long as I am there I have to put up wards and be prepared for that kind of malice. Hopefully it won’t last long. I’ve already had one job interview this past week and I have another one scheduled for Monday, so with any luck one of them will call back sometime before Pantheacon and I’ll be out of there, at a different and better job. There is also the chance that I will be fired first thing Monday morning. They put 30-day “Performance Improvement Plans” on me and a number of people in the company, telling them that if you don’t meet the performance improvement standards, you’re out.
I originally thought that I was the only one who got one of those but I found out there are a number of them put on people throughout the company. The trick is that they told me I can’t talk to anyone about my PIP. I did, and I found out many people have them. Once again, secrets used by abusers to control. A classic corporate-military technique; divide, frighten, and conquer. The counselor’s bad evaluation of me on Friday may be enough to where she will decide to fire me. I won’t fight it, it’ll be a relief; but if she does have the guts to fire me in person, she will get my unbridled opinion of her and the rest of the jack shit management that is driving what was a good place to work into the dirt.
That’s enough about this. I’m going for a new job, a better one, with benefits; one that has normal hours, 9 to 5 or 8 to 4, instead of this crazy noon-till-nine arrangement that I’ve dealt with for the past three or four years. I’m going to set up my personal wards and go forward into whatever happens like a warrior. If you want to burn a candle for me that I can get out of this crazy shit fast, I appreciate it; if not that’s OK, I appreciate that too. Either way, it seems like the Minerval has brought the legendary change it is supposed to bring to people. My job is to face it and move forward.
Thanks for listening.