Sometimes I look in the mirror, and I don't recognise the person staring back at me. It only happens occasionally, usually during quiet times, when there is no purpose to seeking out my reflection - no makeup to remove, or blemish to inspect - just an innocent glance that leads to a locking of eyes. Me out the outside, and her in the reflection, or is it the other way around?
It's as if in those moments, it is the artist looking to converse with their creation; consoling, justifying. The strokes and lines starting to build a person, a face for the world to see. I'm confused at any given time, about the face that I'm presenting to the world.
I find myself becoming increasingly frustrated at my work. I am supposed to be a therapy aide - I'm supposed to be helping people - physically hands on. At the moment, and for a long time now, it has been all hands on the phone - I'm a glorified receptionist. People treat me like a receptionist, and I fucking hate it. Most people don't even see this as a problem, which is where it really annoys me. Because if I were doing it simply because I had time to fill, or I was asked to help out during a time of short staffing - that would be ok; it is the assumption, the implication that my first and foremost position is at that stupid desk.
The problem would not be being a receptionist, it's just that I'm meant to be more than that. The problem with me is that I will always want to be more than I am. I expect it of myself.
Today an overpaid specialist doctor held a small clinic from our offices and at the end of his day (which consequently was 30 minutes after the time I was supposed to finish work) he came to me to ask about bookings for his next clinic. "Who are you? What do you do?" he asked me, so I told him; "well surely then you should be doing my bookings" he said, at which point I wanted to thump him in the forehead. I wanted to scream I AM NOT HERE FOR YOU, I AM NOT HERE FOR THE EXCLUSIVE USE OF MY FUCKING TELEPHONE SKILLS, FOR YOU, OR ANYONE ELSE... I am not here... the real me, is not here. If this were a diary, this would be the point where I'd be writing dear diary, I hate my life.
Thinking about how I answered his question, my heart quickened with anxiety at the thought, what if I'm never more than I appear to be? What if I'm only ever going to be the front desk girl, when all I want to be is the brains in the back office. What if the seven people who follow this blog are the only seven people in the whole world to hear my thoughts? To know me for me? What if I'm never more than I am right now? That is a positively torturous notion and it scares the hell out of me.