I’ve had a couple of soul-crushing jobs. Perhaps the most jarring of these was the position I held in the bursar’s office at my university. As a student employee, I thankfully only had to work eight hours per week. At the start of most two or three-hour shifts, I was given a list, which showed names of students who owed money to the university, with a corresponding phone number. The lists were organized by dollar amounts, and displayed values ranging from a few hundred dollars, through to the ten to fifteen-thousand-dollar neighborhood. For two or three hours at a time, I would sit at a desk next to my supervisor and call these former students to discuss what they owed, and how they wished to proceed in paying off their debts. As a rule, I was not the first person to contact them. I was often the third or fourth university caller to reach out. Furthermore, my calls were almost always the final step before the bursar would transfer the debt in question to a collection agency.
When I took the job, I thought, somewhat naively, that I could make a bit of a difference. I know the toll that financial difficulties can exact on someone. I know what it feels like to lose sleep when worrying about where the rent or the next meal, or money for utilities will come from. I was only using the job to pay for groceries and my electric bill, but I thought that, in some small way, hearing an understanding voice on the other end of the line would help the people I was tasked with calling. Sometimes, it did. But, often, I didn’t get that far. The person on the other end of the line would see the area code and generic university number, and would answer already in a defensive mindset. Sometimes, they would lose their temper, but I tried not to take it personally. I knew from experience, that they weren’t actually angry. They were scared. Not a fun position to be in at all.
I maintained a somewhat idealistic outlook for about six weeks at that job. After that, I began to dread going to work. I became more than a little cynical about my coworkers as well, which was somewhat unfair of me. I have to admit that much. There were a couple of student employees, who I could tell derived some enjoyment out of calling these people, but most of them were basically good people. So, I started calling out more and more. Oftentimes, I just couldn’t take going in. It simply hit too close to home for me, and most days that I worked, I would end up going back to my apartment and breaking down in my room over the profound unfairness of it all. I know more than a lot of people that life isn’t fair, but the uncomfortable fact that my job was to, in a way, pile on to the financial burdens of others, was a little too much. I heard many stories from those people unfortunate enough to receive a call from me. Almost all of them were making an effort to pay their debts, and almost all of them came from single-parent, single-income households. When a college education costs in excess of $40,000 per year, one income will usually not be enough to pay for it. Once again, this all hit far too close to home for me. Even when my father was alive, he was never a source of financial support. He died owing $10,000 in back child support to my mother, and what little he had at the time of his suicide was sold off to pay his debts.
So, eventually, I was let go. Rightfully so; I wasn’t doing my job often enough, and even when I was there, I could barely stomach the work. I should have left that job earlier, and it was unprofessional of me to carry on when they could have been looking for a suitable replacement, but hey, you can’t change the past. Regret is a wasted emotion. It’s always been my nature to be unyielding in the face of a challenge. I’ve always tried to “just grind it out” when faced with adversity, and it has served me many times. If this job taught me nothing else, however, it showed me that there are certain times when you should cut your losses. Certain situations simply aren’t salvageable.
Every office job I’ve had has been similarly discouraging. I know that my intelligence isn’t to blame for this – even if my overall temperament is. I’ve found that my past jobs in landscaping, moving furniture, janitorial work, have always given me a far greater deal of satisfaction. Not from the money, mind you. If my rent and bills are paid, along with a bit extra, I’m typically content. I think the satisfaction comes from the tangibility of the results of my work. After a day re-structuring a yard, or cleaning, you can actually see the difference you’ve made. In that regard, it’s far different from filling out spreadsheets behind a desk.
Apart from writing, my destiny most definitely lies somewhere else. I want to be in a position to, eventually, help people and make a difference. Both the town I live in (Amherst) and the surrounding area have an extremely high homeless population. Seeing them outside of stores, or at entrance ramps to highways, always makes me think, “What if?”
Contrary to popular belief, most people on the streets aren’t there by choice, or because they are inherently inferior. Sure, there are those who are in that situation because they have exhibited poor decision-making abilities, and, despite numerous second chances, have ended up in the gutter. They tend to be the exception, and not the rule. Often, their plight is the result of an uncommon string of bad luck, or extreme mental illness. Considering the latter of those always hits home for me. My grandmother, uncle, and father, were all extremely depressed individuals, along with who knows which other disorders that went undiagnosed. I have had uncounted bouts of depression, and am still working through my issues. So, the question remains; “What if?” What if I didn’t have the amazing support system and safety net that I have? What if I had two dysfunctional parents instead of one? My depression isn’t an easy cross to bear, and I’ll be honest, I don’t know where I’d be without the positive influences provided by my mother and my coach. I always wonder if I would even still be here. There’s no shame in admitting that you need a leg up every once in a while. Apart from the rare exception, most of us do at some point.
Every time I see someone panhandling, I can’t help but feel some degree of kinship towards them. I’ve only ever admitted this to my mother and my girlfriend of nearly three years, but whenever I have a spare few dollars on me, I give it away. I don’t know that I could tell anyone besides them face-to-face, but doing so here feels easier. Besides, I’m disclosing this with a purpose in mind. It hurts me not to, and it hurts even more to have it and not give. Life is hard enough in the best of times, so making a small dent in the collective unhappiness of the world is comforting when I can do it. Being short a few dollars won’t prevent me from paying my bills. If it does, then I have bigger, more immediate problems that I should be addressing instead of writing this. But giving it to the right individual can help make someone’s day a little easier, and a pat on the shoulder or handshake to make someone feel connected in a way, costs me nothing.
So, again, I feel an urge to help in any way that I can. I can’t (and won’t) do that while sitting behind a desk. My future is definitely in writing and boxing. No matter where my fighting career takes me, I know I will eventually be a trainer. The sport, due almost entirely to my current coach, has done so much for me. So much of my identity is tied to boxing, because I had no concept of who I was before I began on the long road to becoming a fighter. More than anything, this sport is something that I need with every fiber of my being. It showed me that I was worth something, and that I could achieve whatever I put my mind to. If I can do that for even one kid who was in a similar or worse position than I was, then it will be entirely worthwhile.
The same goes for my writing. I plan to write extensively about addiction and mental illness. If nothing else, I want to normalize these things. Then, maybe those who are afflicted with these issues will feel less ostracized and more able to talk about them. My memoir deals with how I got through my own troubles early on. I was broken as an individual, multiple times, and somehow put the pieces back together each time. Truth be told, I look back often, and realize that it’s a miracle that I’ve made it this far. I owe so much of it to my strong mother, my amazing girlfriend, and a number of friends who are like family to me now. Without them, I’d be nothing. Many of them have told me that I’m one of the strongest people they know, and I always cringe away from that compliment. The only reason they see me that way is because I betray so few of my emotions to the majority of the people close to me, even in the worst of times. Truthfully, I felt all of it. The breakup and loss of my first love, the sudden deaths of my grandmother and father, the years of financial and marital stress between my parents that warped my world view, and god-knows-what-else. All of it. I’m trying to realistically depict how it all affected me, and how I dealt with it. Again, if that, or my eventual collected works help at least a few people, then it will be worth it.
I just hope I can make a positive difference.
~Sean Donnelly
Inside the Ropes: My Perspective 