You see, being back in an office was (and still is) phenomenally daunting for me. the last time I had working hours and a desk, it nearly killed me. I spent well over a third of my time in that job signed off sick. The stress was crippling. i wasn’t well to start with, and I was made exponentially worse by the job I had to do. And that was just a no-mark payroll company.
So I was very ambivalent about this internship. Not because I didn’t WANT it – I still remember the first time I saw the Liverpool Biennial office – I felt like the Little Matchgirl, freezing in the snow, looking in to a lovely, warm picturebook toyshop; staring in through that big window at a world that would be forever beyond my reach. There are some hallowed places that only the truly worthy get into – BBC Broadcasting House, Pinewood Studios, the Biennial, the Groucho Club. Humble losers like me would be stopped at the door, “no ticket, no talent, no access.”
But in my head it seemed like the old Cinderella shoes, you know the proper grim, Grimm brothers shoes, where the ugly sisters cut off their toes and force their feet into shoes made of red-hot iron, in order to win the hand of prince charming. I’d be getting what I want, but at what cost?
What cost? Being long term-unemployed becomes a disability in itself, even for people whose previous employment didn’t damage them psychologically. It strips you of your simple social confidence. Those natural “new job nerves” are amplified by the message drilled into us that your job defines you, and without one, you are worthless. The culture of unemployment creates a vast gap between the Cans and the Cannots, whereby you are either capable, or on Incapacity Benefit. If you’re not working, you are not good enough, and the moment you try to start working, you are made painfully aware of that vast gulf between you and those who CAN.
So having spent almost a decade as one of the Cannots, these first few days seem like leaping out of the frying pan into the fire. I have been very afraid that I am not well enough to work in an office, let alone good enough to be interning at the Biennial.
But actually, most of the real day-to-day freak-outs are utterly normal, and universal. What happens at lunchtime? Where’s the milk? Do I make tea for EVERYONE? How in the name of all holy hell do I print stuff? What time’s hometime? Will that girl with the nice hair think I’m rude cos I have no earthly clue what her name is?
Actually, right now everyone’s talking about that yoga you do in a really hot room. I’ve done yoga. I don’t feel so totally out of place. Admittedly the yoga I did was Chair Yoga for the elderly, but still… (the girl who invited me had a really strong accent. I thought Cheeyaah Yoga was one of the fancypants types. *facedesk*) I think I’m going to be ok.