Laid Off-Day 8
So I've been feeling remarkably zen-ish about this whole layoff thing, especially now that I've got most of the paperwork out of the way. Basically what happens is that your former employer agrees to give you some money (and my understanding is that it's generally an insultingly small amount) to go away. Really go away. Like, you have to sign something that says "I'll eff off and not bother you anymore, about anything, ever again. And thanks for the minuscule amount of severance pay. I promise to tell nobody how much money you did or didn't give me to eff off." And of course in our society it's ALWAYS personal when it comes to money. So even after what you think has to be the final insult - the actual layoff- you then have to deal with the "severance package". Another judgement, another blow to the fragile ego. And another reason to freak out about the fact that You. Don't. Have. A. Job.
But at night I've been having fever-dreams about my work. The work itself. Wanting to give it to people who refuse take it. Being forced to hand it off and not wanting to give it up. Trying to explain what needs to be done to people who don't understand or who won't listen. And people I only vaguely recognize are making sandwiches, filling my emptied file folders with assorted meats and cheeses, and generous dollops of reduced-fat mayonnaise (okay, I made that part up, although one particularly bizarre dream did feature tiny Scottish TV nutritionist, Gillian McKeith, in a cameo role). Just frustration after frustration, all night long.