In the early 1990s my mother, a freelance programmer and web designer, often enlisted my help in completing projects when she was swamped with work. What began with web design quickly expanded into graphic design and content writing, although for many years I only took jobs I stumbled into. For my mother, freelancing was her Real Job and although it was only a hobby for me, I never saw her work as anything other than a career.
My husband and I met in 2004. Although we were both college students, he is a traditional man whose sense of pride and self worth are closely tied to his ability to provide and care for his family. He made it very clear then that I only needed to have a career if I wanted one; a housewife and stay-at-home mom suited him nicely. I had been freelancing as a hobby and earning some respectable spending money for a couple of years when his GI bill ran out and money got tight. With him only 6 months from graduation, it fell to me to quit school and provide a steady income. I quickly found a job working in a residential home with people who had MR/DD, but the job required I pass a physical. I had been under treatment for a barrage of health problems for a couple of years, so I knew my doctor would never sign the physical. Not to be denied in our time of need, I took the paperwork to a local clinic, gave them an incomplete history and started my new job with a clean bill of health.
After a few months, the 18 hour days and heavy emotional stress triggered a health breakdown that landed me in the hospital. My doctor explained to me then that she had been treating me for Fibromyalgia for over a year, although she had not yet formally discussed the disease with me. After a long visit and lengthy conversation, she advised me to quit my job and wrote a statement that I was not to work for a minimum of 6 months. Money was tight and I again began freelancing. I spent hundreds of hours on a large job but when the clients health failed and he couldn't pay, we turned to my husband’s family for help. Thus I was introduced to the “Real Job” stigma.
Apparently if an illness can’t be seen it doesn’t exist, and if people don’t see you leave and come home each day, you aren’t really working. Although nothing was ever said to me directly, the family began voicing their opinions loudly to my husband and daughter. I was lazy, worthless, and I did nothing but "play on the computer" all day long. As my freelancing expanded from web and graphic design into writing, my first article was published. I hoped that being a published writer would change the family’s opinion of my work and relieve the constant stress they were putting on my husband and daughter, but it didn’t. I had made several thousand dollars in the months I was "unemployed" but it was not enough to convince the family that I was actually working.
My husband, bless his heart, has always been a constant source of encouragement, but I saw and felt his pain each time he hung up the phone or came home from a visit. Even my 11 year old daughter was embarrassed and wounded by the incessant condemnation. In her anger and confusion she would mimic the words she heard so often: “Why won’t you get a real job, Mom? You’re just lazy, you don’t really work!” I felt so guilty that I began to troll the newspapers and online ads looking for a Real Job that I could do despite my health problems.
When my own self confidence failed I became stressed and ill, but my husband’s confidence in me never wavered. He picked me up, set me back on my feet and gave me a little shove back to the computer. Finally, despite my anger and frustration, I began to see some humor in the situation. Eventually I realized that I am a very lucky person indeed.
While I sit here sipping my morning coffee with my little dog curled up warm on my lap, the people with Real Jobs are on their way to work, griping about the cold weather, the traffic and the price of gas. My stress and pain levels are low, my health is good and I am content. As they sit at their desks in front of their computers earning a paycheck, I will sit here at mine doing the same. I, however, will be wearing my fuzzy slippers.
