As I continue to recover from the hip replacement and five years of chronic pain, I’m rediscovering the joy of getting out of the house again. I’ve spent the last five years staying at home, only going out when necessary, such was the power that crippling depression had over me, so going out regularly, even if it’s just for a walk down the canal, feels like heaven. But it’s becoming apparent that getting out is costly. Even a bar of chocolate costs two euro, if not more. The cost of living has exploded, with things nearly costing double what we paid for them during the pandemic. I’m no longer a victim of chronic pain, and I know that I’m going to have to get a job. And it’s not just that I have to – I want to. I want a steady homemaking-physio-work-writing routine. It doesn’t bode well that even just typing that sentence is tiring me out, but I’m confident that once I get into the swing of things I’d be laughing.

There’s a slight problem, however. Okay, scratch that – there’s an enormous problem. I’ve done lots of voluntary and freelance work in the last eleven years, and I’ve done it while raising our daughter and keeping the house going. However, I haven’t had a steady job with a predictable income since 2015, so I wouldn’t call myself a catch on the auld job market. When Alison was in primary school, it suited all of us for me to be at home, ready to dash if the school telephoned or texted me. Now Alison is almost fifteen, and I feel like that stupid grasshopper who failed to prepare for the winter. I love being a mum, and I’ve had a tough time over the last few years adapting to the role of not being needed and being very needed at the same time. In four years, please god, Alison will be in college and with that, the day-to-day organising and keeping track of school meetings, basketball training, drama rehearsals and the likes will be gone. What will be my purpose then?

The last three years particularly feels like a waste. I know I couldn’t help the chronic pain, but the accompanying tiredness was so debilitating that even a once-weekly blog felt like a mountain to climb. Research suggests that pain can rewire the brain, and I think I was stuck in fight-or-flight mode for a long time. Now that the pain is gone, I’m now grappling with tiredness, possibly from the extra physio, but also the years of sleep deprivation and pushing through it all.

I also feel annoyed when I think of all the money I’ve spent on doing various courses in the hope that a combination of them would lead to meaningful employment. Unfortunately, many content creation and editing jobs are now being replaced with AI. I honestly don’t know how this can be justifiable, especially since most people I know would agree that it’s obvious when AI Has Been Used To Write An Article (grrr). There’s also been a shift in the last twenty years in how we consume material. Even I, a self-professed lover of feature journalism, don’t buy newspapers anymore, opting instead for news websites like rte.ie and thejournal.ie (being unemployed led me to cancel my Irish Independent Subscription).

And speaking of phone calls, for those of you who haven’t met me in person, let’s just say I don’t quite have a telephone voice suitable for working in a call centre, unless it’s a Guinness or Smirnoff call centre and they’re expecting to hear a drunk at the other end of the phone. Nor am I built for waiting tables (unless it’s a restaurant where customers love to have their drinks and  food rained all over them) nor, thanks to this hip replacement and the good old CP, am I suited to stacking shelves. Thankfully, I’ve never had any interest into going into the medical field. Can you just imagine these shaky hands trying to draw blood or insert a catheter? I wouldn’t let myself anywhere near me with a needle, and nor should anyone else.

I think back to when I first graduated from Trinity in 2007, clutching that precious English Studies degree etched in Latin (only for the parchment, I could’ve printed it off one of those dodgy templates on Microsoft Publisher. You know the ones, with the dodgy Latin text to show where your own text should go?). I was young, naïve and full of hope. I thought that I could juggle a number of jobs: Freelance Journalist, giving English grinds to Leaving Cert students, teaching creative writing and eventually churning out two novels a year a la Enid Blyton. It’d take a while, sure, but I believed that I would eventually secure that six-figure book deal that all writers fantasise about. Perhaps I still could: who knows?

But money, although useful to survive, isn’t my only motivator. It’s also about the embarrassment and shame I feel for being out of work for so long. Yes, I raised a child, but plenty work and raise children. When I’m asked, “what do you do?”, the answer is always different. Unemployed, self-employed, and occasionally, stay-at-home parent, which is the hardest job in the world, and that’s before you remember that there’s no sick pay or annual leave.  I had a rough few years, and I’m considering looking into counselling to help me process that, but now that I can look forward, the expanse looming ahead of me is frightening. I feel an irrepressible need to fill it with something purposeful.

Now, I know that a certain Cork-based sister is going to smite her forehead and contact me saying “This is not what we agreed. We agreed that you were going to focus on your physical and psychological recovery.” My mother’s body might be dead but somehow it feels that she lives on! And I am of course taking my recovery seriously, but the hip replacement has given me a new lease of life and I’m craving the satisfaction that can only come with being productive and having achieved something (Here it’s worth noting that, like Del Boy, I’ve always plugged away but haven’t actually achieved that much, i.e., completing my bloody novel).

In a bid to throw myself back into the labour market, I’ve joined Employability, an organisation dedicated to helping disabled people find work. My mentor is a fellow CPer, which helps when explaining my capabilities and limitations. There will be challenges, however, to finding work. The cost of living crisis means that many businesses are reducing their workforce, for example, shops introducing self-scan options, reducing the need for staff. Employers are looking for value for money, and may not be willing to gamble on hiring a disabled person who, while well capable of work, may need accommodations in order to reach their true potential. This is nothing new. According to the National Disability Authority, 32.6% of disabled people are in employment, compared with 70.8% of the non-disabled population. This is well below the EU average of 51.3%; in fact, we have the lowest percentage of disabled people in employment in Europe (Source nda.ie).

All of this isn’t exactly inspiring, but like many others, I shall persevere! After all, the best thing about being disabled, and specifically, being part of the Independent Living Movement, is knowing I am not alone, and that we are collectively advocating for change. In the meantime, I’ll continue applying for the jobs that crop up in my inbox, until such time I write that award-winning novel!