Thoughts on Work

I have worked many jobs during my lifetime. One of the hardest jobs was where I drove a forklift and pulled cases of towels all night in a warehouse to be thrown on a conveyor belt to be shipped to retail locations. It was hard work and I was paid according to the amount of cases I pulled. Many of the cases would be forty or fifty pounds. I would do this night after night for five days a week for a paycheck on Friday. This arrangement was certainly advantageous for my employer as the pursuit of an ever larger paycheck spurred me to pull as many cases of towels as I could.

The money was good, but there was a drawback. Most mornings, I was so physically tired from working vigorously all night that all I wanted to do was have a few beers, watch television, and then go to bed. I did this day in and day out and lived for the weekend where I could have leisurely pursuits and happiness. I quickly realized that there was more to life than this.

This brings me to the thoughts on who set an eight hour day as a standard day of work? I would have been happy to work four hours a day of that strenuous job and to get paid less. I would still have had enough to live reasonably comfortable on those reduced work hours. I would have probably been more productive in a physical sense and certainly a happier worker. I would have had time for my much enjoyed reading, writing, and thinking; that idle time where my mind is free to roam and think new thoughts.

I guess I am lucky in a certain sense in that I was born with a flaw in my genetic code and within my brain chemistry; a condition called schizophrenia. Society has deemed me ineligible for work and has given me a monthly stipend to support myself. It is meager compensation though. Due to what my family and societal pressure has taught me, I often feel guilt and remorse over not being a productive member of a working establishment. That puritanical pressure is a heavy load to bear sometimes. Believe me, I tried for years, but my disease got progressively worse under the pressures of employment. I am only able to work part time now.

Growing up, my father expounded upon the virtues of a work ethic. His father was a successful banker and he was a successful businessman as well. Work hard; support your family; buy a home; build equity; were all mantras I heard growing up. Unfortunately, some of us in society are incapable of doing those things due to a disability or mental handicap. We are forever relegated to the fringes of society.

What makes it even harder, is that physically, I am a strapping, young looking lad that seems capable of great exertion. Most people see this outer shell and think, “Why doesn’t he work harder?” “Why can’t he support a family?” It is an aggravating conundrum to experience. Most of my family would rather skirt the issue and to ignore my illness exists. It is much easier for them to shun me than to face the reality that in the genetic Russian roulette of life, I got the bullet. What father would want to admit that his 33 year old son is barely capable of taking care of himself without living a life of homelessness and squalor? I don’t even want to mention the amount of pressure having two extremely successful siblings has put upon me.