I do not proclaim myself to be a writer or a graphic designer or a web designer. Truth be told, and judging by how I’ve been spending the last twenty months of my life, you could sum up who I am in three very painful words: call center agent.
I doubt that growing up, any one dreamed of being a call center agent. Hell, this job description didn’t even come into Philippine existence ’til the early 00s. My grade school yearbook (by the way, I look like a total turd in it with my stupid headband and Madonna gap) says that I wanted to be scientist when I was 11. My high school yearbook tells a story of a swimming Hanson fan girl (and that’s it, thank goodness they left out that one incident back during our freshman year when I kicked Anton Dator in the nuts). My college yearbook (which has yet to be printed, I’m guessing) says that I will one day be relevant. I no longer want to be a scientist, I’m no longer a swimmer, I’ve managed to tone down my Hanson fanaticism, and I still want to and will be relevant.
But how can I, when I am merely an overworked, underpaid, and robotic call center agent, ya?
I am writing this all here because one day (hopefully, in the very near future. Like, early next year) I hope to look back to this entry and feel a sense of pride that I refused to be stuck in this blackhole. And that I actually took steps to get out of it, instead of silently and loudly bitching about how frustrated I am with my life.
No, I am not going back to finish my Thesis as I might just end up banging my head on the tiled Lanai floor of Miriam College. No, I am not going back to school, though I whole-heartedly wish I could go back in time, back to when I was 17 and filling up course application forms. Instead of deciding to take up some useless course like International Politics, I would’ve majored in Communication Arts or Business Administration, specializing in E-commerce. If I knew I’d end up flipping an Avaya phone the middle finger every time a beep would come through my headset less than a year after college, I would’ve rid myself of my “Eh ano ngayon kung di ako papakainin ng prinsipyo ko? Mayaman si Mama! O eto, International Studies, majoring in International Politics! Isang kurso na walang ka-demand demand sa Australia!” mentality.
My life has admittedly been made up of one bad decision after another, in the same way that my “love” life has been made up of one boyfriend after the other. I’d think it cool, if I probably were 14 with an uneven haircut and the tips of my hair dyed blonde and totally into the whole Myspace drama scene. But I’m freaking 22 years old. Ten years ago, I thought that by the time I hit my early 20s, I’d be a successful novelist churning out bestsellers, engaged to a certain blonde musician, and living in some hick suburb in Oklahoma. What a LOL, the reality that is Helga Weber now.
So. A big hopeful sigh here. The desire to resign from this job and quit this industry has never been stronger and the need to be somewhere and something else has never been more appealing. And surprise surprise, there’s actually progress!
And forgive me for turning sappy, but there are two people I’d like to thank for helping me come to this realization. Lover, who told me that I’m too pretty to be working in a call center (lol) and that I could be So. Much. More. My mom (who is dangerously close to finding this blog, and I’m totally crossing my fingers she sticks to Friendster) whom I disappointed by letting go of my academics just so I could be financially independent. She allowed me to be the stubborn person that I am, never tried to impose what she wanted for me, yet offered her help when I told her I’m getting out. And took me shopping, too! Her words when I informed her of my plans to leave my only source of income, take up these courses, and not move back home: tell me whatever you need so I can help you out.
I just wish I could ask her for rent money.
Now I go back to serious writing.