Losing game, losing face.

2015, you've burnt me from the very beginning, how very kind of you. I want you to know that it doesn't matter. You always win, anyway.

I'm at the same point in life as I was a few years ago, and a couple of years before that. And I'm a lot older, but sadly none the wiser. I always thought I was not a gambler, that my life risk taking aversion will help me in the end, help me make the right choices. As it turns out, although I never learn, I mostly go for the gamble. Gambling is such a nasty addiction - you do it again and again and again, even though your voice of reason is screaming at you 'Don't do it! Don't do it! You'll regret it!'.

My head did scream at me, almost three years ago. It has been screaming at me every day ever since, but I've managed to silence the little voice to a point that I convinced myself it wasn't there anymore. I thought I won. I felt on top of the world for a long time, albeit for such a small (and as it happens, fake) victory.

But it's all my fault. Who can I blame for me having lied to myself for all this time? I can only point to the reflection in the mirror. I wanted to lie, to make it true, to make it pretty and perfect. But the gamble is never true, never pretty, never perfect. It's dirty, nasty, a vicious circle you only manage to break free of when you've hit rock bottom.

I'm not quite there yet, but I can feel it coming. I'll be hitting that rock soon enough and once again, having to pick myself up. It's funny, I recognise all the signs, yet the addiction is still keeping me in my cozy circle. So I've no one to blame. Even when I will hit rock bottom and ascension will begin again, I'll still be the only one at fault. Irrationally, I blame her. Every day, I blame her. In my head, I scream at her that it's all her fault I'm once again broken and in pieces, but on second thought, it's me. I let her get to me, she slowly broke down all my carefully built walls, let the sun shine in once again... And then she turned away and it's dark again.

No light at the end of the tunnel. Not yet, it's too soon. For now, all I have is a terrifyingly long walk, fumbling along a wall of memories in complete darkness. Adjusting to darkness is the worst part, I know. Once your eyes are alright in the dark, light emerges. And that will happen, light comes after dark just like a neat conveyor belt. This is not the end.

This is just one end. Feels remarkably like all the rest, although I'm sure it's one of those gets-worse-before-it's-better ends. The year is just beginning. Maybe it's all uphill from now on.

... I can lie to myself a little while longer, I guess.
Life, you win again. Check mate.

Welcome to the dollhouse.

“Marched up to me, looked me right in the eye and said, ‘I’m here for a job. Any job.’ Work experience, none. Recommendations, none. Skills….

So I gave her a job, any job.”

Gone are the days where that could happen. Albeit, that is a fictional exchange from The Gilmore Girls, circa 2003. A mere decade later, I find myself in the unemployed shoes, except that now one can’t simply walk up to people and ask for a job. I’ve been doing that for the last 10 months and it hasn’t gotten me anywhere. And no, I haven’t been applying to jobs that do not match my resume or my sparkly eyes and exuding personality.

I am looking for a part time position in a customer service environment. Pubs, restaurants, bars, stores, high street shops. You know, workplaces fit for an Eastern European immigrant. I’ve been living in London for the last (almost) 5 years and in this time I’ve been a nanny, a bartender, a waitress, a student and all around, a punching bag for English employers who think that an Eastern European background equals not knowing the law and rights and responsibilities of employees/employers.

Don’t get me wrong, some of my employers have been absolutely lovely. In 2012, I’d been unemployed for close to a year and my former manager was amazing enough to give me a chance, in an environment I didn’t have any kind of experience.

Since then, I’ve gone back to school to focus on what I really want to do – journalism. I’ve been a student at Goldsmiths and I’m now in my third year, looking yet again to get a part-time job. Studying is great, but unfortunately it doesn’t pay the bills and I don’t have super rich parents willing to foot the living bills that come attached to the not-so-glamorous London life.

But I’m crazy, I know. I should go to the closest jobcentre plus and apply for benefits. That is, after all, what is expected of me, as an immigrant. That is what David Cameron assumes, that I’ve only moved to London to live off other people, which is probably why I’ve been studying for the past three years. So I can get a degree, drown myself in endless student loan debt and ultimately, ask for government charity.

I’m crazy, I know. Crazy to think that with a strong administrative background, not to mention several years of customer service experience and the knowledge I can actually finish a degree, I could ever get a position a monkey could fill provided it could explain that no, it doesn’t have other aspirations than to endlessly serve.

After close to 300 rejection letters and numerous humiliating phone calls/personal calls to various places of business, I’m probably out of options. I moved here believing in London’s multicultural background and I spent the last three years studying British media history, British media law and cultural studies. And yet, the one thing I can’t seem to escape is my non-British nationality.

Just goes to show that London is not exactly welcoming to immigrants, unlike the garbage mainstream media has been serving Londoners on a silver platter.

A small line in my passport says more about me than anything I’ve ever done.

Oh, grow up.

In 2014, it’s impossible to go a day without seeing some proof of your average joe’s entitlement over other people. This particular time: a parking space in a gated community in North London.

I live here. I’ve been living here for little over 2 years. It’s a fairly secure property, with a gate accessible only with a four letter combination code, given to residents and Royal Mail. And for the past year, to every Tom, Dick and Beelzebub in town with a car and a fiver to spare.

Yes. Average joe is renting out the parking space assigned to his flat, to make some spare change, probably to pay for a speck of fuel. Or maybe his every day coffee. Neither of which matters here.

This past week, my parents drove across Europe to visit. They came here, I let them in and told them to park the car in this particular space – mind you, for 20 minutes only. Why? Visitors parking was occupied, by a car belonging to none other than my average joe here. So I figured it wouldn’t be a huge problem if my parents put the car there until they washed up and had a glass of water. Seeing as you know, he’s parked in the visitors bay and I had visitors?!

Little, little child. Me. I was handed a note and swiftly told that if I wanted the parking space, I had to go online and book it, for it belonged to the flat in question and I had no right to park there. Okay, you got me there. When prompted to move the car, we did so without causing a big fuss. But I couldn’t park in visitors parking, because uhm, you’re occupying it with the car that should rightfully be in the bay you’re asking money for. Far be it from me to stop people from collecting money on properties they lawfully own, but seeing as I also live here, you kind of have to use the rightful space or find another elsewhere, not use all available unmarked space that's servicing the rest of the block. Others have cars, too. Maybe they would like to park there.

So, like any civic minded citizen, I went home, googled his precious parking space and found his hourly rate. I proceeded to put half of the rate in his mail box, as the car had been stationed for only 20 minutes and I didn’t intend parking it there again. Maybe I was angry, too. I'd parked a rental car with English license plates before, in the same spot and with him seeing it, and he hadn't said anything at all. Suddenly, he has an opinion because the car has foreign licence plates. His entitlement is infuriating. He has been harassing me ever since, presumably to talk to me. Waiting for me to come outside, then waiting for me to come back home.

He asked for money (I still have the note in which he’s redirecting me to the website, for booking and payment purposes), I gave him money. I may have given it to him in a fashion he doesn’t deem acceptable, but I didn’t see him object nor return it to express how offended he is. Without reason, if I do say so myself.

I don’t understand people. You don’t give them what they want, they harass you. You give them what they want, they still harass you. How long can this world go if the owner of a lousy parking space he’s not even using can behave in such an asinine way? It’s not even that valuable. You ain’t in the Fortune 500, honey. Keep your change.

On growing up Eastern European, depressed and somewhat ambitious

Warning: This is a rant post.

I was diagnosed with clinical depression when I was 20, following a less than ideal childhood, a break in and a street mugging that left me more paranoid than children being irrationally afraid of the dark. I’m turning 27 this year and it has been a roller coaster, but it feels better than it did 7 years ago. I managed to move all the way to London, so I guess the depression fog occasionally lifts long enough for me to do some things.

Coming from a restrictive, poor environment, I was never encouraged to go that extra mile in school. Good enough was always enough, as my parents were constantly busy trying to provide for me and my sister, or otherwise busy with their own personal issues. I blamed them for a very long time, but I realised after years and years (of issues) that despite parenthood, they too were people and were going through problems that had little to do with being a parent. I guess therapy does help, with some things.

Growing up, I loved learning languages. That’s what I remember most from my early days in school. My French teacher always encouraged me and cheered me on, and I decided when I was 9 that I wanted to become a translator. My little girl dream was to learn French, English and Arabic and to work for the European Parliament. I’ve always been fascinated with politics. But then I grew up and grew old and exchanged those ambitions for being a writer. I used to write children’s tales in my preteen years and it seemed to flow, so I figured it would be a nice profession. I still do. But I grew up. Unless you’re writing a bestseller, writing isn’t an easy occupation. So I abandoned that thought, although not entirely as I still write fiction, albeit not for publishing purposes. I changed my mind again, or rather was forced by circumstances to do it. I studied business and accountancy, which was a far cry from humanities and the arts. My parents figured it would be a money making career, at least more than spending time at home, coddling my imagination in hopes for a great novel idea.

Then I got diagnosed with depression. Suddenly going to school to study something I couldn’t relate to, couldn’t infuse any passion into, was unbearable and excruciating. Long story short, I thoroughly disappointed my parents and moved to London. I think I was running away. I spent the first two years trying to sort myself out. Did I even have any ambitions left? Did I want to do anything? Did I have a plan? No, I didn’t. So I revisited all my little girl dreams. And I changed my mind, again. Or as I like to think, I made up my mind.

No, I wouldn’t be a banker, or a hedge fund manager. I decided journalism was what I wanted to do. Or even publishing would suffice, if I happened to be a horrible writer. So I went back to school to dedicate my mid to late 20s to a craft that has become insufferably competitive, and even more so if you’re not from a country whose reputation doesn’t involve thievery, homelessness, carelessness and debauchery.

I was happy! And since being diagnosed at age 20, I couldn’t remember what happy was. But when I got the acceptance letter, I was happy. Fast forward two years later and here I am. I’m about to start my senior year and I think I made a huge mistake. Not in choosing to study in this field, or pursuing a career that’s increasingly more dangerous than rewarding (or so would the newspapers have you believe). But I think it would have been easier for me to choose something that’s predictable and expected of someone like me. I tell people what I want to do and they deeply congratulate me. For studying in a foreign language, for wanting a writing career in a foreign language, for trying to break free of all the negative stereotypes that surround my nationality. I know, I know, I should feel grateful for all the nice things people say. But I feel offended most of the time. Yes, people are nice saying these things to me. Yes, they seem to mean it. No, they aren’t aware of my past experiences and no, they don’t know my journey. It’s offensive to me that people pigeonhole me as that Eastern European girl trying to bite more than she can chew. I would rather they said that girl whose writing puts us all to sleep. Which I’m sure I have by now.

I dream of being a political journalist. Depression often keeps me from pursuing it, but I occasionally take one step further and I’m reminded that this really is something I want to do. Can I do it, really? I live in a country who constantly talks about Eastern European citizens like they’re the devil incarnate. And you know, some are very bad. But some of us have to hide our nationality on résumés, and even then it’s still hard to find a job that’s not in cleaning services or in the catering industry, because that is what’s expected of us. So maybe I am making a mistake in having big dreams and ambitions that are better suited for people who go to schools like Eton and Oxbridge and eat with a silver spoon every day. Perhaps I was wrong in thinking I can pursue a successful career in a competitive field in a country that prides itself on being free and equal. Maybe I should marry rich. Maybe I should have claimed benefits and bought myself a silver spoon.

The business of 'getting in'

In 1482, Leonardo Da Vinci wrote the first ever resume and it wasn’t until almost 500 years later that this piece of paper became a staple in order for someone to get a job. If at first a resume was simply a description of one’s professional experiences, nowadays it is nothing more than data analysed by recruiters.

I still remember when I wrote my first resume. For my first job, I didn’t need one – I knew the boss. Don’t you just hate nepotism? It does however make the world go round. My first curriculum vitae was sent out containing no buzz words, only a few lines about my education (I’d finished high school 3 years before this moment and was studying accountancy in Romania) and some information about what I was doing in my current position. I can’t remember having a need for including words that can go through a recruiter’s filtering process, because back then the so called filtering process didn’t have so many loopholes. It wasn’t a case of having to explain every single moment prior to an application, it was more an issue of whether or not you had skills for said application.

I’ve sent out many resumes since then. I’ve changed and tweaked a piece of paper until it no longer feels like me. We must now tell people how we’ve boosted sales, ensured high levels of productivity or demonstrated exceptional leadership. The funny thing is… There’s only so many jobs where you can pinpoint those things. Exceptional leadership – one ought to be in somewhat of a supervising position (one way or the other). But we’re not all bosses. High levels of productivity or increased sales? When you’re at the bottom of the food chain, no one tells you if something you do every day boosts sales or attracts new customers. I wouldn’t know if I helped bring in more customers for the last bar I worked at; but I know my boss sure did make me feel like I was barely scraping the bottom of the barrel. Bygones.

The curriculum vitae is now the business of ‘getting in’. A few years ago, a small gap between experiences meant either someone who is lazy, or someone with an exceptional life story – and interviewers wanted to make the difference beyond looking at a piece of scrap paper. In 2014, anything longer than 2 months automatically makes you ineligible for any job – it’s a sign you can’t commit to an employer. Not that employers offer the same courtesy. In the era of individualisation, we’re now reduced to 2 A4 pages in which we must include all our sale-boosting, achievement-boasting experiences, somehow managing to highlight the ones we need for a particular job application (tailoring your CV, they say…). Some people don’t have the luxury of pursuing only experiences that could translate into that. And somehow, that makes them less than anybody else.

The business of ‘getting in’ is just as political and economical as many other endeavours. The pressure each industry puts on young people trying to survive/make something/get somewhere can be debilitating. But if you don’t get in, you’re left scraping the bottom of the barrel. Somehow I wonder if that’s not a better alternative after all.

*Credit where credit is due. The business of getting in, as well as the nepotism crack are referenced from the Gilmore Girls.

Taylor Walker - why you so sucky.

Last year in May, I was broke. I was finishing my first year of uni and I was looking at being unemployed and bored all summer long. On one of their open recruitment days, a Taylor Walker pub manager thought I could work in her pub, despite having never had any experience with food establishments. That was nice of her. I thought she could smell the desperation in my voice while I talked myself up in the interview, but I was a little child back then. Little did I know what was going to happen over the next nine months.

I started my job as a 'team player'- they don't really label you 'waitress' or 'bartender', at least not to your face, anyway. At first, it was all okay. Day in, day out, it seemed to be an alright routine, albeit slightly boring and predictable. Shitty customers, a boss who doesn't care enough to even yell at you, supervisors that had to take the fall for basically everything and team players trying to make the best out of a not-so-good situation. Over time, however, being overworked became a notion of the every day. Six or seven day weeks were the norm by the time July came.

But hold on. They pay you more than minimum wage, so of course you ought to drop to your knees and kiss the ground Taylor Walker walks on. Really? (They do pay more than minimum wage, that's not an ironic throw on my part)

By August, I had had enough. Or so I thought. One of my favourite deputy managers ever (thank you, Tess, you were brilliant!) was getting a transfer to another Taylor Walker pub and she offered me a job by her side. Naturally, I said yes, because at the time I figured it was just my current boss that was exploitative and basically, a superior arse.

There I go to work for yet another Spirit Pub, this time in the heart of Central London. I get stuck doing the early breakfast shift, which was absolutely fine for me, as I was bound to start school in September and definitely needed as much time to study as possible. So, I settled on a part-time schedule and after a little while of trying to intimidate me, my (new) current boss seemed to settle down and deal. It's not like I didn't work hard or anything.

Three days a week, nine, ten hour shifts with no break for lunch. On an average, I maybe got my (legal!) lunch break once a week. I was constantly asked to stay overtime, despite not having had breaks. I was constantly expected to work harder than anyone else because I was leaving in the middle of the day (my shifts ended around 4pm when pub activity goes up in flames - usually).

One would say I should have left then. Is this treatment worth any amount of money? Obviously not. I was mad, I raised my concerns with another deputy manager and I got told to stop complaining - I was only working part-time. Well, I didn't know part-time workers had to be treated far worse because they had other obligations along this one job. I didn't leave. I put it behind me and like Lorelai Gilmore (wisest fictional character I know), I told myself life was full of dealing with little people and I had to be strong and thick skinned.

Last week I was told nobody cares about my legal break and that I should do more work. I'm not an arrogant prick, I know exactly when I work hard and when I'm slacking off. I'm not a 19yr old waitress just dropped in the world of hard work. So I snapped. I realised that no job in the world is worth the daily feeling of being useless, despite having hard evidence that I wasn't. I worked hard according to my job description, I was always a good team player, I offered pertinent suggestions based on my direct experience with customers - all ignored, by the way.

I thought I'd just quit this job because of all the mobbing, intimidating and sexual harassment that managers (small and big) like to dish out on a daily basis. But actually, I think I kind of realised no one should empower these people anymore than they already are: by an economy that forces immigrants (a staggering majority in Taylor Walker pubs) to take jobs where employers motivate through fear and intimidation; by the nature of the job - most people working in pubs have to always look good, as you're considered the face of said pub (though no customer actually cares); by higher supervisors who only care about their yearly bonuses. Why should anyone endorse this treatment of people who don't know any better? Most of my colleagues don't speak English enough to ask for directions, let alone read any official document about employee's rights in a workplace.

Yes, I understand that people need jobs. I realise the cruel truth of day to day life: sometimes you have to take a lot of shit to get where you want to be. And to an extent, I agree. But when a job is just a (bad) job, I choose to walk away. Yes, my boss turned the situation around and blamed me. Yes, he probably felt good about himself. I told him that I should leave anyway, if I was such a drain for the company. I know a complaint with official institutions wouldn't stand a chance, because psychological abuse at work is really difficult to prove. When faced with a mountain of irregularities I can't change, I walked out on my boss, my colleagues, my friends (some of them). I'm not sorry. I wake up not dreading the days anymore. It's a huge relief, although not even close to healing the real wound: months of psychological abuse leave a mark that's hard to take care of, even in the days of Prozac and psychotherapy.

Already gone.

2013.

Taking stock of past events is a favourite pastime around New Years Eve, probably since the concept was invented. It seems almost like a rite of passage into the new year. We like to think about what went well, but mosly we like to look back on things we'd like to change. And then we make resolutions and we toast ourselves at midnight, quietly promising that things will be different after the turn of the clock. Like that second is magical. It'll change even us... Or so we hope.

2013 was definitely a weird year. I've had my fair share of disappointments and oddly enough, I'm ending it on a completely different note than how I started. Proof that the supersition about ending a year the same way you started it is nothing more than hot air. Last year I counted down the seconds in a happy drug-fuelled haze and this year... Well, let's just say that neither happy, nor drug-fuelled will happen. It's more contemplative than anything else.

I finally got over the fear of writing for publications and managed to publish for my school newspaper. Nothing big, definitely not major, but a step forward for my personal development. Hooray. I'm still nowhere near where I want to be, but they say something about every journey beginning with a small step. So I think I'm on the right path.

Attacked by a small bout of depression when the cold season hit, I realised that my rose-colored glasses were just an illusion. I've spent almost an entire year hoping that the happy tint will rub off the glasses and splash into life. And then I crashed and finally saw that that's something that belongs in magic shows. Life is more of a cautionary tale than it is a fairy tale, and towards the end of 2013, I'm learning to deal with that. Key word: still ongoing. Love is not a universal cure for anything; love is a modern invention for people to fool themselves into believing that any other person could ever give a damn about someone else. There's practical and then there's insane. And love falls completely under the second category.

Another year, gone. Life always hands us the same things until we learn. I'm still a fool. I'm still trying to convince myself that life is more than just 'getting on with it'. But I haven't learnt this year either. Maybe next year.