If I were a superhero

First of all, the thought of me as a superhero makes me laugh. Several reasons…you have to wear super-tight clothing, which I do not. You have to be rich, which I am not. And I didn’t have a traumatic childhood experience that completely changed me or a magnet placed in the center of my chest, a la Batman and Iron Man, respectively.

Nah, if I was a superhero, I’d be Anxiety Girl.

You’ve seen that drawing before, I’m sure. And if you haven’t, well, I’m glad you stopped by today.

It’s no secret that I have trouble with anxiety and depression. And yes, I take medicine to counteract the crazy, for the most part. But it’s still there.

Take Monday/Tuesday of this week. I did one wrong thing at work. It was something others have done and lived to speak about afterwards. But, after three hours and seeing the boss’ door closed twice, I assumed the worst. I screwed up. I’m not perfect. Ergo, I should be fired. Because that screw-up proves that I’m not good enough for this job and blah, blah, crazy girl.

Yeah. That’s how it goes.

In this case, however, I have something to blame it on. And we’ll call her “CatWoman.” Her initials are the same ones capitalized in that word, so why not.

CatWoman was my boss at the job I had before this one. She was one of a few, but the last one I had before I decided to GTFO of there. (Mom and Dad, I’ll tell you what that acronym means later, if you don’t figure it out yourselves.) And she about killed me.

Not literally, but maybe psychologically. She was a good part of the reason I started therapy. She was a good part of the reason I quit that job. She was also a good part of me realizing just how awesome I am at being passive-agressive.

She was the type of boss that should never be a boss, meaning she never mentally matured past high school. She’d make her way through our office, stopping to talk smack with an employee about another employee. Once, I had to go talk to someone and take a message for her while she hid in a closet because she didn’t want to have to talk to them.

YEAH. That happened.

If a door was closed when she worked there, it usually meant she was talking. And it was about nothing related to work. Unless you count “(Insert name of employee here) is really getting on my nerves” as work-related.

I never got called in because I didn’t put up with her shit. She’d come try to talk to me and I wouldn’t look up from my computer. She’d ask me to do something she could have just as easily done, but she wanted to treat everyone like her assistant. I told her I was too busy. I perfected the passive-aggressive thing thanks to her.

So I guess, since I wasn’t one of her loyal soldiers that catered to the bullshit, it made sense to cut my pay and my hours from an already dismal amount. She gave me reasons she’d made up and I began looking for new employment.

She is without a doubt 95 percent of the reason I am the way I am when it comes to work. I was doing what I was supposed to there. Over and above it, in fact. And I was punished. Not to mention the fact that I was punished with no warning.

So, it makes sense that it’s a short leap to think I’m being punished when I actually do do something wrong (doodoo. heh). And I hate it. I hate that I’m like that. And after I come back from the ledge I even think to myself “Really? You got all hyped up about that? What’s the point?”

And there is no point. Because nothing is worth making yourself feel like absolute shit over. And, guess what? You’re not perfect. I’m not perfect. No one is. And the sooner I get that tattooed on the inside of my eyelids so I see it all the time, the better.

Anxiety Girl. She’ll save your life and then panic that she did it the complete opposite way of what she was supposed to.

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