F. feels like he’s lost his personality, and some sort of corporate alter ego has taken over his conversations, sense of humour and thoughts; S. is in house arrest, taking anti-depressants, on therapy, and unable to move to the outside realm of the city; R. arrives late every morning to work, even if he leaves home half an hour before. It’s as if R.’s mind propels him to move faster, but his body refuses to obey; he regularly leaves the company at night, overwhelmed by the amount of lawsuits he has to manage, and barely sees his girlfriend, M. She, on the other hand, works in a department store from 17 to 22, and was on psychological leave for months; she’s back on the job, and the last time I saw her, she had dark circles around her eyes, almost down to her nose.

One morning, I woke up to work, but felt so helplessly tired I had to call my boss and say I had gastroenteritis. I went to see the doctor so he would write me an absence justification, and left the office with a prescription for anti-depressants and painkillers.

Nothing new, since I’ve been a Prozac girl until recently: they just changed the name of the drugs.

Sometimes, we meet for a drink and some tapas and try to shake away the blues. We try to convince ourselves that we are doing well, because we are independent and we aren’t unemployed; we praise each other for holding on everyday, one after another, and we remind ourselves that we are not brainless employees, on the clock and on someone else’s payroll, wasting time and our talent on random tasks.

R. put it quite nicely once: we work “feeding jobs”. And, indeed, managing real estate, listening to angry Brits complaining it’s raining in their living rooms, working bargains in court, selling cribs and being on the phone with truck drivers every day feeds our bodies and makes a living.

But it doesn’t feed our souls.

When the meds kicked in, I had an idea. So I bought a diary, like a daily planner.

It’s a special planner, though. Everyday, I scratch off eight hours, corresponding to the time I spend in the office. From 9 to 6, those hours aren’t mine. They belong to someone else, to the provider of my income. And I know that during those hours, I’m working on feeding myself.

From 6 to 10, for example, I write down stuff I want to do: errings, hairdresser, shopping, yoga classes, appointments, writing time, or simply, me time. I never write down the time I spend with my boyfriend or other friends, because that’s just lame. In my opinion, when you do that – try to fit in loved ones in a schedule – then you should really revise what sort of person you are becoming, and who you want to be. Because that’s the whole point: you may not be able to fight the establishment in your life time, but you can try to manage your happiness by asking yourself who you really are, who you want to be, and what are the real priorities. This, obviously, considering that the first priority ever is to eat :-P.

And who are we, all these initials who are trying to find the light in the world of little adults?

F. is a painter and a sculptor, who has done exhibits and sold some paintings; S. is a creative manager who loves international commerce; R. has a comedian hiding inside; M. loves children and is specialized in special education; I’m trying hard to have people reading my stories. Like us, there are hundreds of people out there who are enslaved by “feeding jobs” which reassure their parents, but drive them onto the same road they went down one day. And, if I remember correctly, it’s been a long time since I had my independence scream, in which I wouldn’t be like my parents, ever.

P.S.: An interesting article came out today in Publico, a spanish newspaper. It's about the public awareness regarding sexual harrassement and mobbing. If you feel like reading in Spanish, check it out.