SIGNING ON:In the second of a series on long-term unemployment, our columnist feels tired, angry, foolish, and eventually seeks help
THERE ARE THE facts, and the feelings. Of late, the facts – that he has joined the ranks of the long-term unemployed, and that this grouping is seeing the least respite; that he is "over-qualified" (at least according to the Fás inspector) and, aged 47, possibly over the hill; that his family cannot hope to live on €396* a week, hell, that his family cannot afford to hopeat all; that the terraced, D12 house they purchased for €400,000 (plus 7 per cent stamp, plus renovation) is now worth little more than half that – and falling; that they "topped up" the mortgage, casually, almost indifferently, by a further €50k when there was no real need to do so. All these things have begun to affect his feelings. Profoundly.
Despite his wife’s admonitions to the contrary – you’re a great dad, a wonderful husband – he feels a failure. Feels tired. Angry. Feels all the decisions he made in the past decade were foolish: the decision to do a Master’s, to strike out on his own. He remembers the Jesuits calling him in around the time of the Leaving, advising him to pursue a career in law. He possessed, they said, a great gift for polemic and argument. How he wishes he’d listened: the only gift he seems to possess now is sudden, uncharacteristic irritability. He needs to stop drinking.
On TV, a bloke he’d sat beside in maths class (and only because he had dropped out of the A stream) and who is now a junior Minister (Jesus wept) makes lame excuses for the mess. On radio, a guy he’d sat beside in college, and who now has his own morning show, makes light of the IMF visit – easy when you’re earning nearly €200k. He’d have a shock-jock sense of humour on half that. Dole day. After seeing that the €88 earned by his wife for one night’s part-time lecturing has prompted a payment withdrawal of €44, he feels powerless. She is going out to work in wind and snow for less than €50 – minus petrol and parking. He sits at traffic lights, wondering about the wisdom of having informed them.
The lights go green; he misses them, the driver of the car behind leans on the horn. He has never before engaged in this kind of macho bullshit, but now the unemployed man gets out of his car, black thoughts swirling. He raps the window of the other car and when it eases down, tells the driver he will pull him out and dance on his head if he so much as touches the f****n’ horn again. The driver, the same age as the sons of the unemployed man’s friends, goes pale. The older man experiences a deep shame.
That night the kids go to bed early, maybe because dad isn’t in form to play. His wife switches off the telly, begins to kiss him. He tells her he is not in the mood. He does not tell her about the road- rage incident. He holds her, kisses the top of her head. But the idea of making love, the appalling intimacy, is too much.
He wishes, bizarrely, to remain shut off.
She goes to bed, sad. He opens a bottle of cheap red. Usually, he makes a ceremony of keeping the cork next to the bottle, as if he might re-cork after just two glasses. Tonight he throws the cork at the bin. Naturally, it misses.
This goes on for weeks, months even. His wife wonders if he might seek professional help? The light has gone out of him. He is not himself. These tired clichés irritate, but in his heart he knows she is right.
His GP listens, nods, writes a referral letter. Warns him the waiting list may be as long as six months.
Five weeks later – with the intervention of an ex-colleague whose wife is a consultant – he is sitting in front of a psychiatrist in a public clinic. One of the other patients rocks forward and back in her chair, like an animal in a zoo.
The doctor asks about alcohol. The patient admits to drinking at least one bottle of red a night. Why? The patient says the wine blots things out, when his head hits the pillow there is just blackness. Has he been experiencing mood swings, irrational anger? The unemployed man thinks of the kid at the [traffic] lights, nods. Tries not to think of himself bellowing at the kids in the back of the car.
The doctor asks about his sex life. The unemployed man tries to make light of the fact that his libido is now on the floor, where he used to be, every Friday night – boom, boom! The doctor doesn’t smile. Instead, he talks some old guff about traditional male roles, breadwinner, loss of esteem. He fishes for his gold Cross pen – the same one the man used at work. In another life.
“I’m writing a prescription for a medication called ‘Lamictal’. It was originally synthesised for epileptics, but research indicated it has a very positive role to play in stabilising moods. There is a possibility of skin inflammation, which we will monitor via monthly blood tests. We’ll begin by taking 25 milligrams, building to 100, or perhaps 125.” What’s this “we”, thinks the patient. There is, says the shrink, the further possibility of reduced sex drive. Though, if you cease drinking, and begin exercising, it is my professional opinion it will not become an issue. Great, thinks the patient. Not only will I be a failure who can just about manage to feed his family, I’ll be an impotent failure.
The chemist is very cheery. My wife, he says, also suffers from epilepsy, wonderful drug this, made a new woman of her. The unemployed man smiles, goes along with the charade. Maybe some day they’ll synthesise an unemployment pill. Meantime, the one they cooked up for epileptics will have to do.
*Flat rate of €372, plus seasonal fuel allowance of €20, plus €3.90 smog allowance. Minus €44 for wife’s earnings.
The writer of this piece wishes to remain anonymous. His identity is known to the Editor