Liminal Spaces

I left my job of 9 years last summer. There were a lot of things involved in that situation, and while I (legally) can’t talk about everything that went down, there’s a lot I have to say about it. For those of you that don’t know, I was a Buyer for every emo’s kids favorite store. I loved that job - I loved the company, I loved my coworkers, I loved what I did, I loved what it meant to me, I loved that I felt like I was doing something important in my own silly way… I genuinely loved my fucking job … except for one glaring thing that became too much to ignore and that made me feel like fighting for my job just wasn’t worth it anymore. (Look up “pet to threat” by Dr. Kecia Thomas and you’ll have the vaguest idea). So I walked on a sunny summer day in mid-June and haven’t looked back.

Last summer was one for the record books. I called it my summer of side quests. I traveled, I shopped, I read, I spent time with friends and family. I got my groove back. I, ignorantly, assumed that I’d have another job in a snap. After all, I’ve got two degrees, and a proven track record of success. I wasn’t thinking about the economy, the politics, or the fact that I’m a black woman. I still haven’t found a job that meets my needs yet. Literally hundreds of applications, dozens of interviews, callbacks, second rounds, but it just hasn’t worked out yet. I can scream about the evils of capitalism all day, but the fact remains, that living under it, I need a job. Frankly, I was spoiled by my last job. I loved it. I believed in it. It made me feel things. The idea of being a cog in a wheel just…doesn’t suit me. I need to be passionate and interested and care and feel proud of what I’m doing…and support my lifestyle and my habits. Finding something that checks all of those little boxes and that also wants me as an employee is a tall order that I just haven’t been able to fulfill yet.

I’m stuck in the liminal space. Liminal spaces are “thresholds”, in-between states, places of transition. They’re usually represented by empty abandoned spaces that have taken on a surreal quality in their emptiness. Photos of empty hallways, airports, hotels, and malls that make us feel nostalgic and creeped out are usually what we think of the liminal space. I’m in the emotional liminal space. The metaphorical liminal space.

My old life is dead, but my new life hasn’t been born yet. I’m trying to hold my head up high as I act as my own doula, but it’s not always easy. The doubts creep in… maybe I’m just not good enough. The shame… I’m increasingly glad I skipped a party and didn’t run into some old frenemies just to become the topic of their drive home and group chat. The rage… I should not have been backed into the corner that became my exit from my old company. The pride… admitting I’m struggling feels like letting the haters know they’ve won. The sadness… I don’t like feeling stuck. I’ve got a Gemini stellium. I was born eight weeks premature; my mom likes to joke that I’ve always been in a hurry. I’m a mover, a shaker, a hustler. There’s only so much sitting at home, drinking tea, filling out job applications, and reading books I can do before I’m ready to crawl the walls. There are moves I want to make that I just can’t until this job thing is sorted out - literally moving houses, trips I want to take, creative goals I want to fulfill - all things that require capital. I’m afraid it’s even affecting my relationships; turning down invitations, being unable to see some long distance friends, cancelling plans.

I did everything right. Everything. Two degrees. Impressive work history with prestige companies. Showing up early, leaving late, doing the extra tasks. Just to end up in this empty hallway. And still, if I have any regrets, it’s not leaving sooner. Ha!

Even with all of the incredible discomfort and upset and stress that have been part of my life since fall, this has still been leaps and bounds better than my last stint of unemployment in 2015/2016. That liminal space was a liminal space of identity. I couldn’t figure out who I was or wanted to be, my friend group was fluid and inconsistent, I just… was not as sure as I wanted to be or projected. I was also in the infancy of healing from two different abusive relationships. A decade later, and while I’m certain I will continue to grow and change, at least I know who the fuck I am and what the fuck I want out of life this time. I solidified my circle and am supported in endless and wild ways by those who love me. I’ve done so much work in therapy. I’ve cut people off and out of my life. This period is a just liminal space of circumstances.

My therapist from 2015 said something to me that has stuck with me. I know she didn’t come up with it, but the first time I heard it was when she said it and I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently, “When one door closes, another one opens…but it sure is hell in the hallway”.