Why I'm Bipolar and How my Interview Went

This is one of those stories that may or may not be funny depending on how well you know me and how well I tell this story.

So last Thursday was the day before my big interview, that was scheduled for Friday morning. (In my mind, "big" in this case is also known as "important" or "the only interview I've had in seven weeks of applying for jobs and endlessly calling nurse recruiters" or "if I don't get this job, maybe it's time for a career change" or "if this doesn't work out, I will probably spontaneously combust." No pressure.) All day long there was a lump in my throat and what felt like a rock in the pit of my stomach, and both seemed to be growing exponentially throughout the day.

By the time my Favie got home from work, I was a nervous wreck of a time bomb, just waiting to explode. I'm pretty sure I greeted him quite grumpily, and so what does he do? He goes straight to the office and gets on the computer. I don't blame him--he was just getting out of the way of my wrath and letting me have some space. About an hour later it was getting to be dinner time, so I went in the office to ask him what he was doing. What I really meant to ask was "Could you please make dinner so I can work on writing down some notes of what I want to say in my interview tomorrow?" But it didn't quite come out like that, and I'm pretty sure he just answered whatever question I asked.

Well now, on top of my anxiety that had already been building up, I was getting even more nervous because it was getting late, and there were things that I still wanted to do to get myself ready before going to bed. So somehow we get through dinner--he ended up making it and cleaning it up--without too many more grumpy, stress-induced snaps from myself. Afterwards, he offered to help me type up a references page (which I didn't even know existed until he mentioned it.) I agreed and tried to calm down a little while I ironed my clothes.

When he finished, he had printed it out on the nice paper, which I had reserved only for the final draft. I looked it over, and there was a misplaced comma and a word which had accidentally been omitted. I thought to myself, "Why the hell did you print this out on the nice paper when it was not the final draft?" I pointed out the corrections, and then went to check on the paper situation. Just as I had suspected, there was now not enough paper to make enough nice copies of each document that I wanted to bring with me.

"Honey! Why did you print that out on the nice paper?! There's not enough of it to make copies of everything now!!" And I threw the paper down on the desk and ran into the other room where I started ironing furiously.

"Well, I didn't know there wasn't enough paper."

Silence from me. Still ironing furiously. Got...to...get...this...wrinkle...out...

"So what do you want me to do? Can't we just print out the cover letter on regular paper?"

"I don't know what to do!! I don't know anything about this fucking kind of thing!! Just do whatever the hell you want!! I...don't...care!!" And I'm ironing and ironing my poor pants to death all the while.

Next thing I know, he comes into the bedroom and says in the sweetest voice, "Honey? I don't think anyone will notice that wrinkle." He takes the pants away, and encloses me into the tightest, safest hug in the world. I try very hard not to cry, and we just hug for a few minutes, until things start to feel a little better. I apologize for being a bitch, and he says it's OK, he knows I am stressed out, and he tells me to go and write down my notes for the next morning.

So I think everything is going to be OK, and I'm trying to stay calm and write down my notes, when all of a sudden, the biggest, fattest, ugliest roach comes trotting across the middle of the floor in broad daylight, like he owns this fucking place. Oh hell no, not tonight. This is not a good time buddy.

I call my big, strong man into the room to save me from the roach, but when he walks in, I realize he has no shoes on, but I do. I reluctantly tell him not to worry about it, and that I'll do it, while I go to get the paper towel. I put the paper towel over Mr. Nasty Roach, and get ready to release all of my stress by squishing his freaking guts out.

Just as I am about to squish him as hard as I can, he runs out from under the paper towel, at lightning speed, straight for me! I immediately jump to the other side of the room, letting out the loudest, most blood curdling of all screams--like the kind from a dramatic death scene just before the brave heroine collapses to her untimely death and all the lights go out and the curtain closes.

"Goddammit honey!!!!" He yells, in such a tone that signifies "that was so entirely unnecessary, you just blew my ears out, and why the hell are you acting like a total psycho?!"

And he goes off to finish killing Mr. Nasty Roach, and I just cover my face with my hands, all the while crumpling inside. I'm embarrassed at my behavior and stressed out beyond belief, and all that's left to do is cry it all out. And for the second time in a span of maybe fifteen minutes, he's hugging me again, in the tightest of all hugs, and telling me it's all going to be OK. And then I'm laughing at how ridiculous I've been acting, and then I'm crying again because I'm scared I'm going to screw up tomorrow, and then we're both laughing together, and everything is better in a few minutes. Soon after, I'm so exhausted from the emotional stress of the day, I finish my notes and go to bed, hoping that tomorrow morning goes by quick, so I can just hurry up and get it over with.

My interview ended up starting out a little awkward. I interviewed with both the nurse recruiter and the hiring nurse manager, and for me, talking with two new people that I am trying to impress is way harder than just talking to one. When I was telling about my background and about what point I am at in my career, I fumbled over my words and couldn't quite get out my thoughts the way I would've liked. I've never really been good at speaking on the spot. My brain closes up and locks itself off and doesn't want me to get into all of the juicy thoughts and ideas that are always swirling around in there.

The middle portion of the interview was still awkward and spotty at times, but things seemed a little better. They asked me ten situational questions, which I had to give a three part answer to by describing 1) the specific situation, 2) what action I took, and 3) what the outcome was. For most of the questions, I could think of a pretty good example, but there were a few when I just couldn't think of anything specific right away, and I had to sit there in silence, trying to think of something while they were both just staring at me.

The conclusion of the interview was a little easier: I was given an opportunity to ask them questions about the position, and then I just had to tell them why I wanted this job and what I could offer to them. The last thing I said was, "I'm ready to start working...Let the healing begin!"

I then was asked to wait in the lobby, while they scored my interview. (Yeah... they scored that shit... And that didn't make me more nervous at all.) I waited somewhere around 25 leg-shaking, tooth-grinding minutes, during which I thought of at least 20 better answers that I wish I would've given instead. Finally, the nurse recruiter came back out and told me that I would be asked back for a second interview, where I would go to the doctor's office and meet and interview with all the other staff, mainly to make sure the doctors also think I would be a good fit for the position. I then heartily shaked his hand with a big, cheesy smile and enthusiastically thanked him for his time.

I then walked to my car, collapsing into it, and thanking somebody up there that it was finally over.