Laid Off, Laying Down

Anyone ever been laid off their job? Well, now I have too. As a result of it, I give you a piece that reflects the depth of the hurt it conjures, without directly referring to its expected financial setbacks.

I sit in the tub's inky waters, two small candles throwing measly splashes of light onto the darkened walls. Dancing with the zest and joy that comes with having a purpose. Tinny, wobbling waves of sound float from the Bluetooth-speaker-slash-essential-oil-diffuser in the shape of Jack Skellington's head on the bathroom counter. I gaze at its changing LED colors, appreciating its chintzy, multipurpose presence and the friend who gifted it. It feels fitting for the moment. Good, for the moment. Its oil pad is filled to its last fibers with various essential oils that supposedly induce relaxation and clarity - the same ones I zealously dumped into the bath, now marinating my pruning skin.

Crystals line one edge of the tub: rose quartz for love, amethyst for clarity, aventurine for prosperity, amazonite for balance, obsidian for healing, this for that, it doesn't matter. Worry stones to slide over my body, over chakras I don't know the exact locations of. A box of polaroid pictures, seashells, dried rose petals and baby's breath sits on the floor, accompanied by a cup of cold coffee and a thick book on the toilet seat, all purely for the extra pleasantry they may incite. For the added feeling of sacredness and ranks to close on a mind wiped to a blank stupor.

They and the others grouped around me serve only to keep my numbed brain and slumping shoulders inside the cubicle of this bathroom, in the fleeting bubble of a perfect bath. Yet in that bubble, the seemly pinnacle of relaxation and luxury, sits me: a hollow form with just one thought behind its eyes - a single-word question. Why?

The question skitters around my brain with no clear answer. Why? Maybe I was just that disposable. That simply and hastily discarded. That easily excommunicated with every affiliated messaging and scheduling platform in a matter of hours. It's like I never existed in that cozy mountain-bound building, the roots of my sprouting friendships torn from their fertile soil without the hope of repotting. Just spindly roots, clinging to life in cold January winds.

Meanwhile in my scalding bath, my mouth pulls downward at the edges, tears welling in my icy blue eyes, as my ex-coworker once called them. I sink under the water's surface and let it scald my breasts, my collarbones, my neck. The tarnished Peacock Butterfly necklace gracing my neck (significant of growth and transformation, I scoff to myself), takes flight under the surface, rising, floating, and falling with each breath I take. Holding that breath in an effort to stop the water's rippling, I attempt to make everything still after a jarring earthquake. The water ripples on, and my tears slide to join the oily water.

The next day, I try a slew of other scenarios that could possibly calm my incessant moping. First it's the gym, where I end up spending an hour on the treadmill drafting an email to my former boss. An email which I send to my boyfriend instead of its intended recipient because I just need to send it to someone, anyone. I hop off the machine feeling liberated at the email's mere creation, its eloquence and professionalism in the face of adversity. My boyfriend then calls to tell me the email is too long, after which I deliver bitter one-word answers and no I love you. The moping resumes and I leave the gym, motivation and optimism sapped.

I then try to read read, flop around my borrowed Flowstar with flimsy arms, write a story, read some more. But then the clock ticks past the time I would've started getting ready for my shift - the one I was supposed to work today. The one I would have carefully chosen a makeup look for, impressing no one in particular. The one I would've thrown on a tank, Kuhl pants, and bandana for, to strut around behind the bar with lighthearted finesse, delivering quick-witted jokes and genuine smiles behind glasses of cold beer. The one yanked from my days without warning. I stare at that clock, willing time to rewind to a point where I could've proved my importance, my cementation in the company. But the clock doesn't deign to sympathize, so I bury my face back in pages of a fantasy realm. Wondering how much of my soul I'll need to sell to write books like this someday, what the price of stability is.

The time of the would-be shift's start ticks past, no reminder from the scheduling app to get there. No calls or texts questioning my lack of presence. No reminder that I ever existed there. No condolence message from that one coworker who invited me and my boyfriend to Thanksgiving with them when we had no friends to spend it with. No reminder except for the gaping hole in the pit of my stomach, mirroring the feeling of when my first partner unexpectedly dumped me. It's time to pull out the big guns.

Putting my book and computer and Flowstar aside, I break out new kinds of armor: the kinds that fill your lungs and burn your throat and warm your stomach into oblivion. I smoke out the cracked window, plumes of vapor intertwining with my freezing breath, tasting green. Next comes the dirty martini - a failsafe in the face of desolation. An anchor of regularity. I select Hulu, and then the next anchor: Twilight. Ah, the normalcy, the nostalgia. The giggles that lessen the despair bit by bit at cheesy, too-familiar scenes. Finally: peace. Fleeting peace, yes, but peace nonetheless.

This is what my days have become. The creation of finite perfect moments, in which I focus on the smallest details as if they will be my saving grace. They never are, of course, but the brief thought that everything is perfect in this one moment keeps a flimsy hold against the enveloping gloom following too many short-lived friendships. Too many goodbyes that didn't get the chance to be said. Too much belonging that was ripped from the firm grasp I thought I held on it.

So what to do now? File for government money to distract from the foreseeable lack of? Retrieve another job in the volatile industry of service, just to have it ripped away again by an unforgiving economy? Sit and write about my pain until that pain becomes substantial enough to be lucrative? I don't know. I just think: Why? And the email remains unsent, the question left to roll around my mind like pennies in a tin can.