Laid off in 2010, I'm Reduced

It’s happened again. Yesterday I started another new employment program and today I’m depressed.
In 2010 my whole department was outsourced to India. Laid-off I’ve exhausted Employment Insurance, got a diploma with Second Career and applied for many jobs. My line of credit stretched after seven months, I applied for Employment and Social Services: Welfare. Since then I built two business plans, I’ve been to the churches filled with secondhand clothes, I’ve sat in waiting rooms watching the jitterrers, hearing the weepers, watching the silence ones acting invisible, who nearly jump out of their skin if you point out their glove on the ground then they flick a grateful smile because you noticed them and were nice.

STEVE ADAMS FOR THE GLOBE AND MAIL

Now, I’m in a pilot job program. The online part has got it all including an avatar to encourage and keep us company. I guess the number of opportunities overwhelms some people and they can’t keep track. More likely we’re helping social services develop a tool to keep track of us, but there is a chance it might work, so we go with skeptical hope.

People understand you better if you show up looking the same everyday. For me a grey denim skirt, t-shirt, sweatshirt; every piece found in perfect condition in the garbage. Shoes? I still have good shoes left over from before; this is my only conscious nod to my old income.

I take food: a piece of toasted bread with nut butter, folded, tightly wrapped in wax paper, two tangerines. Because it’s the first day I plan for a Tim’s along the way. It’s too expensive to buy anything away from home except on special occasions.

My income per month is $650 from a tenant and $650 from the government. $1300 is perfect for my mortgage; I bet you didn’t know people with mortgages could be on welfare? Everything else: food, hydro, heat, pet food, the internet I use to communicate with the program, comes from my line of credit.

And there’s coffee, with tempting institutional baked goods: an under-proofed croissant, (not a mini), oily muffins which moisturize your hands. I wonder if they’ll have breakfast every week, I expect not.

The facilitator seems exciting and reasonable until he declares his own goals for the program: to become manager.

His coworkers sit quietly off to the side. A trim white lady of a certain age in black slacks, a sheer blouse, drugstore jewelry, glasses on top of her head. She’s along for the ride, if the program doesn’t work out, she’ll be back where she started, in the caseworker trenches.

And an Indian lady here for demographics, without the skill-set this job requires, she gives Dylan easy problems to solve.

We sit in rows. Slowly we reveal what got us into this ghastly state: laid off, let go, company moved, outsourced.

Illuminated life stories with hopeful beginnings and unhappy presents. The crème de la crème, lucky enough to be selected based on predictions of commitment and success. If Dylan can make this work, he’ll get to be director of the whole program!

According to the agenda all three facilitators will speak for equal time. In real life Dylan does the talking.

We break into stunned groups. My facilitator has to repeat her question, we not understanding she want suggestions for discussion speakers. We haven’t even talked to each other and we’re going to choose someone to talk to us? I try to work out how they divided the groups, though it doesn’t matter, any way it’s hopeless.

Later, we can’t believe it - we’ll get an additional $100 a month top-up for travel expenses. I’ll walk, I always walk.

In a daze the participants move towards each other, seeking a real human to connect with, a luxury we’ve had to do without on long days at home.

Weekends don’t mean much when you haven’t done anything all week.

I have a few rules to get me through the week: no reading books during “work hours”; it would be too easy to just read it all away. No drinking (actually it’s a plus, I can’t afford booze). Workouts three times a week, no less, no more, see my item about books…

I am often surprised when on the street somebody greets me. Isolated as I’ve become its too late before I realize I could have made small talk. (All my life I hated small talk and now I’m going to create it?)

I still have some old friends, telling me I’m doing great, that I’m resourceful. We have modest meals at home that end early. They send me links to job postings in their buildings, I apply and we never mention it again.

Some friends and family I’ve alienated; I overthink their personal situations, become adamant with unsought-for solutions. Opine when solace is wanted. Will I ever come back and make friends, regain respect?

What does my kid think of all of this? He is aware. The cheque stub, carelessly left beside the computer, turned upright after homework lets me know.

I designed a book recently, for free because I’d have invoiced about the same as my cheque and 100% would have been clawed back. I sent it to the printer today and should feel great and proud. Actually, I feel like a hack.

Trying to recover grace and dignity alone: busy but meaningless, careful but unseen.

Curious, powerful, capable; pushed down, scolded, reduced.