Let me just say it straight up. Getting discharged from the hospital was the worst. I know. I know. No one in their right mind would ever say that. I mean, I was lucky to be alive and all. But I was pretty much living the definition of the phrase “down on my luck.”
I had nowhere to go. No one to look out for me. And to top it off. I was not young enough to be put into foster care. Could you believe that shit? Seventeen.
I could not even wrap my head around the fact that the system had ditched me. Come on. I was still in high school! Shouldn't someone be looking out for me until I graduate and become a full-fledged adult? But nope. That was not how things worked apparently. It was like, throw me out into the real world and hope I figure it all out. Sounds like a solid plan, right? Not. Just another perfect example of how screwed up the system was.
There I was all on my own. No one to turn to for advice or help. I had to make a tough call. Keep going with my education or throw in the towel. Let the system swallow me like it does so many others.
Look, I know I had made it clear that school was not exactly my favourite thing in the world. But let's face it. Not having that so-called diploma would seriously hinder my future. As much as I might dislike it, that piece of paper seemed to hold a lot of weight. On the other hand, the thought of going back to school plus keeping up with the other demands was downright daunting. But I needed to make it work.
I tried to understand the foster care system. Was it because I was seen as "troubled" or was it simply because I was too old? But let me make one thing clear. I was NOT troubled. I was content with my uneventful life. I was enjoying every moment spent with my mother. It had always been just my mother and me. The thought of anyone else entering our tight-knit circle seemed unnecessary, and I was content with that. However, everything changed when my mother became infatuated with that useless drug addict, Chump. As soon as he and his sons became a part of my life. Things took a turn for the worse.
The mere thought of them was enough to make my blood pressure rise.
Anyway... To transition to my new way of life I knew I needed to create a solid plan. This meant securing a part-time job, finding a small apartment, and completing my high school education.
Let's just call it like it is. I was not the most social person. Simply managing my thoughts could feel like a daunting task, let alone interacting with customers. That was when I came to the realisation that being a waitress was not the ideal role for me. The non-stop conversation and expectation to engage with customers was overwhelming. Once I came across a listing for a dishwasher at a bustling, high-end restaurant in the city I knew it was the perfect fit for my personality.
When I met with the manager, Mr. Dill, he did not ask for my resume or references. Instead, he assessed me from head to toe and asked. "Do you have what it takes to handle the demanding job of a dishwasher?"
I enthusiastically agreed with a nod. This position was truly ideal for me if I was being completely honest. The thought of avoiding tedious conversations and interruptions while I cleaned seemed like a dream. All I had to do was position myself by the sink, plug in my earplugs, and turn up my music as I tackled the dirty dishes and pots.
The initial day of work proved to be quite chaotic. The head chef graciously greeted me and gave me a tour of the bustling kitchen. The space was expansive and brimming with activity. Cooks and chefs were loudly calling out orders, while waiters and waitresses scurried about carrying trays. The delightful aroma of food filled the air.
I quickly learned the ins and outs.
I developed a rhythm. Moving dishes from the sink to the drying rack with efficiency and speed. I did not mind the hot water or the strong smell of soap. I quite enjoyed the feeling of my hands in the warm, soapy water.
As far as meals go, being employed at a restaurant had its fair share of advantages. Initially, I must confess, I was a tad unsure about accepting leftovers. It made me feel like a stray animal, rummaging for scraps that the restaurant had discarded. It bruised my ego, and I was tempted to leave the leftovers behind. However, the grumbling in my stomach could not be ignored. So, with great reluctance, I brought the leftovers back with me. And to my surprise, they turned out to be quite a delight. I not only cut down on my food costs, but I also had the opportunity to taste dishes that I typically would not have chosen. And I must say, my taste buds are extremely content.
There were occasions when the remaining food was not quite as enticing, yet I always made a point to bring it back with me. I would even use my imagination and transform the leftovers into a fresh and unique dish. It was almost like a fun little cooking competition, and I found immense joy in it.
For example. If I had leftover chicken and vegetables, I would whip up a stir-fry with some rice. If I had some bread and eggs, I would make a delicious breakfast strata. It was like a puzzle. Trying to figure out how to use the ingredients in a new and exciting way. This brought back fond memories of a time when life was simpler. I remember my mother's resourcefulness as she would use the little we had inside our fridge to create a wholesome meal.
That was a time before she lost all her senses and dated Chump.
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