I will have to get a job. I will have to sit in that chair and talk about my skills during an interview. That will have to happen.
I have a tendency to confuse job interviews with psychotherapy. Instead of impressing the interviewer with my smooth communication skills, I tend to take on a confessional tone. Lots of sighs and defensive posturing. I forget that I'm trying to get a job and act as if we've both come to peel back the layers of Jeremy.
My therapist decided that we should do a mock interview once. I didn't like that my therapist was now turning into a fake prospective employer. I don't think I did very well. She didn't tell me if I got the fake job.
I worry that some day, when my family loses patience with me and my friends are married with kids and have either relegated me to the gay friend they invite over for Thanksgiving or worse, that I will have to go to a group home.
When I was in group therapy for anxiety, many of the patients talked about how they were going back to their group home. The idea was exciting to me. I imagined it like "The Real World" for people surviving mental illness. The decor would be whimsical but very high quality. The common area would have two or three overstuffed, funky colored sofas. Maybe a pool table or a pinball machine for those late sleepless nights.
I would be the gay one. The manic depressive, schizoaffective, borderline personality girls would love me. We would compare our prescriptions, paint our toenails and talk about our crush on the hot guy with anger issues.
We'd make art and smoke cigarettes and solve each others problems.
Something tells me this isn't what group homes are like.
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