Donna Quixote: When Does Applying For Jobs Turn to Self-Harm?

There’s a kind of harm that hides behind effort.

It looks like trying.It looks like polish.It looks like professionalism.

But lately, applying for jobs feels like cutting.Slicing my skin, not with blades — but with edits, logins, and resumes.Each revision a little bloodletting.Each rejection a quieter bruise.

They say keep going.That it’s a numbers game.That the right job is out there.

But how many times do I have to rewrite myself to be seen?How many pieces do I have to carve off before they say I fit?

I’ve taken the classes.Over 30 AI certifications.I’ve passed every test they said would make me relevant again.

And still — silence.

They don’t ask why I left my last job.They don’t ask why I have a gap in my résumé.But I’ll tell you.

My last company collapsed and never paid me what I was owed — over $42,000 in unpaid wages.No warning. No resolution.The CEO’s probably on his father’s island.The founder’s probably drunk on a porch somewhere, while 2,500 employees were left to rot.

Shortly after that, I was diagnosed with CIDP — a rare, degenerative nerve disorder.Some days I can walk. Some days I can’t.When I can, I use a cane.

I’m considerably slower than my friends and family.And I can see how uncomfortable they are.They don’t mean to show it — but it’s there, in the shifting eyes, the eager goodbyes, the way their bodies speed up when mine can’t follow.

So I prefer FaceTime over in-person.It’s just easier.People don’t like to see disability. Or decline.Or financial struggle.Because deep down, they think it’s contagious.

I receive weekly infusions to keep it from progressing.And thank God for my husband’s insurance — because otherwise, I’d already be under.

I applied for disability.Denied. Appealed. Denied again.I’m still waiting — just to get a hearing.

It’s been almost three years.And the message is clear:Wait quietly, or die waiting.

And no — I’m not launching a GoFundMe.No “invest in my business” campaign.No slick personal brand asking you to sponsor my survival.That’s not hope. That’s humiliation dressed in lowercase letters and pastel graphics.That’s the American Dream with a Venmo link.

I’m not special.Millions of Americans are in this same boat — or worse.Unpaid, unseen, still trying.

So I’m not asking for sympathy.

I’m just asking the question none of us are supposed to say out loud:

Should I just stop?Because they shoot horses, don’t they?