Not a Robot

February.

March.

April.

May.

June.

Now July.

I have applied to so many jobs that it has cracked something open inside me.

Not broken. Broken would almost be cleaner. This is something I carry around still functioning, split down the middle in a place nobody can see.

I have rewritten my résumé until my own life no longer sounds familiar to me.

I have taken years of work and reduced them to bullet points. I have turned the things I am proudest of into keywords for a machine.

Managed.

Improved.

Coordinated.

Implemented.

Exceeded.

I have written cover letters to people who will never read them. I have answered the same questions over and over.

Why are you interested in this role?

Tell us about a time you overcame a challenge.

What makes you a good fit?

I want to write:

Because my children need groceries.

Because we do not have a home.

Because I am very good at many things, and none of them seem to matter when an algorithm has already decided I am not the person you are looking for.

Because I need one person to look at everything I have done and say, Yes. You. Come in. We can use you.

Instead, I write something polished about my experience and transferable skills.

Then I click submit.

Then nothing.

Again.

Again.

Again.

I have applied for jobs I am overqualified for. Jobs I am underqualified for. Jobs that pay less than I made years ago. Jobs I do not want. Jobs I would be grateful to get. Jobs I could do in my sleep. Jobs that require four interviews and an assessment and a cheerful little video explaining why I am passionate about processing insurance claims from my bedroom.

Every application takes a piece of hope with it.

At first, rejection feels personal.

Then silence feels worse.

Eventually you apply without believing anyone is on the other side.

You fill in the boxes because filling in boxes is something you can do. You upload the résumé. You retype the résumé into the form. You agree to the terms.

You confirm you are not a robot.

Find the crosswalks. Find the traffic lights. Find the bicycles.

You begin to wonder what, exactly, would prove that you are a person.

My anxiety has been stuck in my throat for so long that I have started thinking of it as part of my body. Like an organ. Like something I was born with.

There is a weight behind my ribs.

My back hurts. My neck hurts.

I do this on a laptop balanced on my knees in a house that is not mine, keeping two children quiet so a sick man can rest. I type my name. I type my address, which is currently a question. I select my availability from a dropdown menu.

Immediately.

I am available immediately.

The applications ask what I am looking for in my next role.

I am looking for money. I am looking for insurance. I am looking for a reason to put on real clothes. I am looking for the moment somebody reads my name and does not move on to the next one.

I type:

I'm excited about the opportunity to bring my skills to a mission-driven team.

I click submit.

Then I make lunch.

Then I do it again.

It isn't the rejection that wears you down. Rejection means somebody looked.

It's the nothing.

The application that sits in a portal marked under review for six weeks and then quietly changes to no longer under consideration. No message. No name attached to it. Just a status change, the way weather changes.

I check the portals anyway.

I still check them.

The kids ask what I'm doing.

I say I'm looking for a job.

Finley asks if I found one.

I say not yet.

She says okay and goes back to what she was doing, because to her it is a thing that will obviously happen, the way summer ends or a tooth comes out. She has not learned yet that a person can do everything right and still be told nothing at all.

I do not correct her.

I click submit.

The screen thanks me for my interest.