I'm done playing your paper game
I wish I could say job hunting just tires me out. That it’s hard, but manageable. That’s what people expect you to say, isn’t it? But for me, every attempt feels like a system crash. The moment I start trying, the headaches hit. Executive function drops like a dying signal, and my brain turns into a pierced balloon, leaking motivation until nothing’s left.
And everyone around me says the same useless lines — “Don’t give up.” “Keep applying.” “You’ll find something.” Like I haven’t been doing that for years. Like repeating it harder will magically rewrite reality. I’ve had enough of pretending persistence is a cure.
The truth is, I’m good at things. I know that much. I can field record like a machine, test accessibility systems with precision, and build embedded devices that do exactly what they’re meant to do. But none of that matters when the world only values people with paper — degrees, certificates, golden seals of approval. Those expensive little rectangles that say “I’m good at this” even when half the people holding them couldn’t troubleshoot their way out of a wet paper bag.
The whole system’s designed for them. For people who coast through on credentials and connections, not those who grind through experience. They’re the ones who get to say they’re “qualified,” while people like me — who’ve had to learn by doing, adapting, surviving — are dismissed as unproven.
I’ve had two so-called jobs so far. The first one wasn’t a real job — no contract, no stability, no respect. I was “hired” to work on an embedded system meant to go into cars as a speed limit warning device. I told the guy from the start that it probably wouldn’t work out. He pushed ahead anyway. I worked. I delivered. I got paid only when my work happened to please him. His excuse? “It’s a startup, we can’t afford to pay you yet.” The shouting, the criticism, the endless blame — I didn’t recognize it for what it was: abuse. I thought it was just me not being good enough. Other people came and left, saw the trap, got out. I stayed too long. By the time I quit, my health was wrecked — my heart skipping beats like a dying metronome.
The second job was better, but still without a contract. I worked full time on cryptocurrency ATMs — buildroot systems, hardware bring-up, OS upgrades, device drivers, thermal printers over serial, the whole lot. I was paid on time, every month. It felt like I mattered for once. But then the project slowed down. Full time became part time. Part time became silence. I kept waiting for news that never came. Until one day, I saw a new commit in the repo I’d been maintaining for a year. Someone else had taken over. That’s how I learned I was done.
Now I’m in my third job — if you can call it that. It’s the only source of income I have left. I test digital accessibility systems, or I did. A month has gone by without any assignments, without updates, without a single message about what’s happening. The CEO left. The community program manager left. Communication dried up like a well. The company feels hollow now, like it’s running on fumes. I’ve got a meeting today with HR — a one-on-one. I don’t expect answers. I expect platitudes. I expect to be told things are fine, or that it’s being handled. But I know that tone too well — the kind that means, we’ve already decided what happens next, and you won’t like it.
And then there’s the internal ableism. The kind that festers inside the very organizations meant to support disabled people. The ones that only uplift the “good disabled” — the ones with degrees, family connections, and clean narratives about overcoming adversity. The major blindness organizations — take your pick — play the same game of polished public image over real inclusion. They talk about empowering blind people to work, then quietly undermine anyone who doesn’t fit their mold. I’ve watched them treat independence as a moral test, not a circumstance. I’ve never been to their conventions myself — but I’ve heard enough from people on the fediverse and Reddit to know what they’re like. The arrogance, the carelessness, the literal messes left behind. That’s the kind of behavior that poisons how the rest of us are seen.
So no, I’m not job hunting anymore. I’m done. Done chasing approval from systems built to exclude me. Done trying to squeeze myself into their definitions of value. I’m not lazy. I’m not broken. I’m just empty.
Because now I’m drifting. Here, without even knowing why I’m here anymore. Without a purpose again. The brutal truth is, I have no worth to this world — at least, not in the way it measures worth. And it leaves me floating, hollow, exhausted. Why keep doing what I’m good at if it matters to no one?