Unemployment

It always begins with a cardboard box. You almost don't want to use the box, because it seems like such a cliché, but in the end, that's what you use because nothing else will hold everything. You pack up your knickknacks, your plants, your coffeemaker, and you struggle through the door. You can't imagine how you ever managed to accumulate that much stuff, especially considering the size of your cubicle, but somehow you did.

Maybe it was wholly unexpected or maybe you were surprised it took this long, but it still comes as a shock as it slowly sinks in: You are not going back to work.

You head to the unemployment office, which, like every other government office, is placed just a mile or two outside of convenience. Maybe you never considered the state of unemployment in the country before, but now it's in your face, as you observe all races, ages and levels of the economy hoping to get on the dole. Even though you don't really want to be there, you mostly feel for the employees of the unemployment office (and wonder, ridiculously, what happens if they get laid off). They patiently explain over and over again how to receive your benefits, how to check in with the office, how to fill out forms.

Finally, papers in hand, you trek back home. And realize that for the first time in months or years: You have nothing to do.

Of course, that's not really true. When you're employed, all you think about is how deliciously lazy you'd be if you weren't at work. But off the clock, suddenly your days fill up. You're running errands, applying to jobs, communicating. You go to the gym. You write, or practice your guitar, or build a model airplane.

You keep yourself busy not so much because you have to, but out of fear. You fear that if you slow down, turn on the TV or sleep in those few extra hours, you'll become a stereotype: The stinky, stoned, junk-food eating, half-civilized unemployed person. You have no idea how long you'll be unemployed, but you want to stay sharp, ready, prepared to jump into action in case your name is called to return to the workaday world.

Mostly, though, you're worried that if you do return to work soon, you'll regret not accomplishing all the things you could have gotten done. You'll inevitably go back to work and secretly wish you had had an extra week off, which is sort of silly since you have no idea when you'll return to work. You have ghost feelings of being overworked. Like an amputee scratching at a lost limb, you scratch at old feelings of stress. You still dread Sunday evenings, but for no real reason.

What you realize, though, is how quickly the days go by when you don't have a job. Noon goes by in a flash, and before you know it, it's three o'clock. Five o'clock comes and it still feels early. You don't remember the days feeling this fast when you had a job. In fact, they felt endless. You don't feel as hungry anymore, either. Back at the office, a cookie or a sandwich was the only way to entertain yourself, to treat yourself. But now, lunch or dinner pass by and you don't even notice. You might count the minutes until "The Simpsons," but not necessarily until 5 o'clock.

Your mind begins turning on you, becoming cranky because you've thrown your schedule and pattern away. Now it's harder to remember things and stay on task when you're not ruled by the clock, by the computer, by timesheets and calendars. It's more frequent that you walk into a room and forget why.

You get lonely. You enjoyed your days of solitude at first but didn't realize how much you depended on talking to other people at work, even when you didn't feel like it. You e-mail a lot more and wait for your friends to get home from work so you can talk to them.

You worry about finding a job. You're concerned your unemployment will run out before you find a new position. You wonder if maybe you're being too picky in your job search, and whether you should apply for more administrative positions.

You also worry that you're becoming too complacent, because you also begin to worry that you will find a job. You go to interviews and even though it seems like a nice job, you secretly hope they don't hire you. It's been a long time since you've been this well-rested and content, and you're concerned that this is not normal. You can barely pay the rent and you're eating cans of food that have been sitting in your cabinet since you moved in. But despite all that, when your roommates come home from the office at the end of the day, as much as you think, "God, I wish I were them," you also think, "Thank God I'm not them."

— Claire Zulkey (clairezulkey@hotmail.com)

— graphic by Derek Evernden (derek@ocellus.net)