Nowhere Chronicles (Part 2)

After resigning, it took me a month to find another job. I kept my expectations simple. I didn’t bother to make any real long-term plans. I told myself I’d save money to travel, watch all the concerts I wanted, read more books, get inked, hang-out with friends and basically do what every person in their early twenties wanted. I was looking for work which came with a decent salary, and hopefully lesser stress. I wanted to have enough time for myself.

When an HR person called back to tell me I was hired, I was pretty happy. I specifically intended to take a fair-paying writing job. It meant less social stress because I didn’t have to coordinate with a lot of people. It also meant I could do something I actually liked, which was writing. It wasn’t any creative writing post, but I accepted the offer and officially became a web content writer. I said it before, and I’d say it again: it was the best pseudo writing job I ever took. A job with definite work hours allowed me to draw a thick line between my professional and personal life. My initial expectations were fulfilled of course, and somehow unexpectedly, I met a few friends along the way. For a good while I was able to afford most of the things I couldn’t buy when I was in college (mostly clothes, shoes, and books, and even the very laptop I’m using today) and reached a certain level of financial independence. For the first time, I had a regular job with social security, health benefits, and generous incentives. I knew I could afford to move out of the house if I worked a few months longer. More importantly, I felt my family respected me a bit more, seeing that I was responsible and able enough to support myself.

However, just like any job, it came with its own set of impediments. As expected, I didn’t grow fond of my other workmates. And like any typical BPO, we were overworked; we rendered overtime hours daily for months, sometimes until Saturday mornings. As to whether that kind of work was interesting or fun, it was certainly a very monotonous one. It only took a few hours of churning out generic websites for anyone to get bored out of their wits. It's worth mentioning the company allows one to practice technical writing, and for web designers, basic graphics and lay-outing skills. But anyone in their right mind knows this isn’t the kind of job they should settle for. Still, these were the least of my concerns.

My real setback was the odd hours. The work required me to render night shifts for two weeks at a time, a serious constraint that messed up my social life (yes, I have relationships,) body clock, and overall health. I knew it was becoming a hindrance when it was slowly becoming difficult to have a life outside of work. It's the kind of stress that builds up exponentially until you're burnt-out. In a way, the nature of work somehow dictates the psychological and emotional space left for people to dwell in. The second one, which I consider the major setback, came eight months later when the company forced most of its writers to take calls instead. It meant working graveyard hours permanently. The change really threw me out of my comfort zone, and once again, I felt the urge to move away.

During that time, I was in a relationship that was turning cold, my father was diagnosed with a rare type of cancer, and I was slowly losing interest in my work. Good people in the company cheered me up from time to time and it kept me going a bit longer. I was in denial of my depression. Now, I wouldn’t go through all the convoluting details of my resignation. By the end of that year, I knew I wouldn’t be working in the company anymore.

If you’ll ask me whether my co-workers there had any sympathy for what they did, I’d have to say I saw some of it in my team leaders and close workmates. Then again, most of the people who signed up to become day-sleepers certainly weren’t in it to “help businesses.” They were there for the money, and they stayed there so they can support their families financially. If they really cared at all, it’s only because they had important connections with people in the company.  

Despite these disadvantages, looking back, I wouldn’t say that BPO stint was a waste of time. I have always sought value in the things I did, whether it meant I’d earn income or simply feel a sense of fulfillment. What turned out to be one of the most stressful times of my life also afforded me enough space for myself to think about what purpose I wish to commit myself to. I had time to engage in personal writing projects, read good books, and communicate with people who had more or less the same concerns. I enjoyed a degree of solitude yet felt that I wasn’t completely alone. It was bittersweet.

By ten months I had an idea what I was saving all my money for. It wasn’t just for vacations, concert tickets, or an apartment. I was still in that place where I didn’t know what to do with what I wanted, but I figured an academic atmosphere should help give me much needed direction. When I left the company, I decided I would go back to school. I had to learn how to write better—that was the plan.

Nowhere Chronicles (Part 1)

Three years ago, I made a decision to quit my job as a program researcher for a television network in pursuit of another career path which I hope would bring me closer to my true self.

Barely a year out of college and six months into production work, I had hardly known what I was giving up my job for. At that time, the most rational decision to make was work long enough to get promoted as a segment producer even if it meant being a contractual employee who didn’t receive any medical or social security benefits for years (most of my bosses were still contractual employees when I left.) Working conditions could get rather toxic especially for a newbie in the field. While we didn’t have to go to the office daily, being a researcher meant overseeing everything from start to finish, so I was practically working until I went to bed. Although some of my research assignments were fun and interesting—going different places and meeting popular personalities, testing beauty products to tasting unique dishes, shooting with a professional camera and making decisions that gave me a degree of artistic freedom—my enthusiasm to perform well gradually waned.

When I left my post, I convinced myself it must have been the low pay and lack of real security which drove me to search for another job, preferably a more comfortable one. Looking back, it was more than that. It must have been the people I worked with and their demanding, often complacent and unprofessional attitudes that caused my anxiety. It was inevitable because production is all about team work. Ultimately, I had this growing resentment towards my co-workers for failing to own up to their shortcomings and pointing their fingers on the easiest person or thing to blame. At the same time, knowing some form of politics will always be present in any office, I was aware moving to a different workplace wouldn’t rid me of this problem. We simply cannot choose the kind of people we can work with. Nevertheless, I found comfort in the idea of moving away.

Unfortunately for my co-workers, the introvert in me happened to dislike most of them. At first it was the act of not spending too much time with people I felt uncomfortable with. I would only deal with them when my work required me to. I usually had lunch or dinner alone. I didn’t stay in our cubicle when most of my co-workers were there. Short cigarette breaks with some members of the crew were alright. But after working with them for months, it proved difficult to draw the line between my work and personal life. I could only imagine how this was for senior researchers and producers, losing all distinction between professional and personal life, becoming used to eating, sleeping, and bathing in the office with strange people for days at a time.  

The general atmosphere was one of constant pressure to deliver; it wasn’t enough to meet the deadline, we had to be good or we’d get a mean and embarrassing remark from our producer. It was quite terrifying, to be honest. I was afraid my contract would not be renewed (which was baseless because if they really got rid of people, they should have axed half of the crew a long time ago.) Though my co-workers were just as afraid to face our producer, I figured they’ve gotten so used to her bitching that it didn’t affect their performance anymore. Most of them, I felt, did not have any real sense of sympathy for their job. It didn’t matter how they accomplished it, as long as it was done. And it didn’t matter whom I worked with, I was always left compromised. When something went wrong, they would rather put someone else under the bus. It was every man for himself.

Was I able to rise above the expectations, deal with unprofessional co-workers? I think so. I knew it was only a matter of time until I got promoted and received better salary. Given the nature of the work, I wasn’t the only person thinking of resigning. In fact, a few were already leaving at the time, and staying there guaranteed I’d get dibs on a better post. However, by then even this thought did not ease my anxiety.

I was uncertain of a lot of things, but I was sure working in production or media in general wasn’t the right career for me. I couldn’t imagine myself doing that kind of work for the next twenty or so years. Underneath all the rationalizing, what I really hoped to find was something closer to who I was. It wasn’t that I didn’t like shooting features or writing scripts. Apart from struggling with difficult people, it just came to a point where the stresses outweighed what made production work interesting and meaningful. So, I thought: If I was going to do something for the rest of my life, it had to be something I was really interested in and passionate about. It had to be something worth doing. If a career would require me to associate with people I’m uncomfortable with (which frankly means everyone) and if it would demand so much of my life, I must do something I truly love. So, what is it? I had to ask myself that.

The most frightening thing wasn’t that I didn’t know; it was the fact that I actually had an idea what it was. Somewhere inside, I knew. I didn’t understand what I was going through, so I shrugged it off for a while longer. I didn’t really know what to do with what I wanted.