I Think I Committed Career Suicide.

I think I committed career suicide several years ago – and fortunately, social media was not around for the demise. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t because of some egregious mistake I made:  my biggest mistake was working the graveyard shift. Now I can’t get away from it regardless of how hard I try or how well I think I interview; maybe looking to survive and make $400 SUV payments a decade ago instead of letting my education and certifications speak for my worth should not have been as much of a priority as it turned out to be.

I remember hearing from one of my college professors that shitty jobs build character. After nine years of the graveyard shift, I must be a really good dude or a sucker for punishment – maybe both.

One truly never fully adapts to working the night shift contrary to popular belief. I think I’ve done so well here because of my naturally introverted personality yet I have now been pigeonholed into this type of role:  What good is hustling for a come-up if no one ever sees (or appreciates) the hustle?

I have given this more serious thought about my career suicide in the sixteen months of my daughter’s life. Will she ever get to see her daddy for more than thirty minutes at a time? How on earth are we supposed to be able to sustain a happy marriage if I am always too tired to listen to my wife who thankfully works a traditional schedule? In a world that seems to honor workaholics with bigger paychecks and Atta-boys like Boy Scout badges of honor, who sees me toiling overnight in my near-autonomous situation? Who do I vent my employment concerns to about advancing beyond seemingly one dead-end role after another?

They say you need experience – or in my case, I am often overqualified. How do I defend my quest for survival if I cannot provide bread for the dinner table or fuel in the two cars to get us to and from work? I’m all ears.

Let’s see:  my first job out of college, I tried selling life and health insurance for four months. I made zero dollars – after spending several hundred dollars on compliance courses, my “market” was nonexistent. Thanks, Primerica.

More famously, I had that dream back in March 2004 when God woke me up at 3:08 am (true story) to tell me I would be better at teaching our young people. Fast forward eight years to an unequivocally burned-out educator who would rather crawl in the fetal position than deal with large-school district politics or another round of standardized testing the state shoved down our collective throats. Perhaps having that second job at Wal-Mart wasn’t exactly the best call – but it paid off two cars, a wedding, credit card debts, and provided a nice enough kitty to give us the down payment for our home all within a five-year period. Man wasn’t meant to work 85 hours per week and that did not include the forty-five minute commute to work in rush hour, yet I pushed myself for five years to miles beyond burnout.  Like I said, a man’s gotta do for his family.

Plies reminded us the saddest nigga in the streets is the one who can’t provide back in ‘08.

To this day, I shudder at even hearing the word Wal-Mart.

Four years have come and gone in my current role. Beyond a steady paycheck, what have I accomplished?

I wrote the training manual for the position in one weekend and regularly update the documentation. A flash drive is included with the book in a sign that my technical writing skills are still relevant after what seems like an eternity of collecting dust bunnies and cob webs.

What else?

Don’t say simple stuff like 99% attendance:  the only day I’ve missed was for my daughter’s birth. Grown men are supposed to come to work daily without asking for credit.

I really don’t know what my successes have been or how to properly articulate them in interviews or on my resume – that may be the real cause of my career suicide.

But…Act II is coming. Look out for it!