I quit my job. I’m still here for 2 more days, but I quit and it happened and it’s done and now I can breathe, kinda. There’s still the problem of finding a new job, but I’m not going to worry about that until after my last day here. When I am home in the mornings and can actually think and have time to research jobs and interview, that’s when I’ll worry about it. I am fortunate enough to have the ability to take my time with this, at least for a little while.

Quitting my job was half impulsive and half a long time coming. The impulsive bit came from texting my husband (after being yelled at by my boss for the third time in an hour) if he’d be fine with me quitting, and then handing my resignation letter in half an hour later. It seems impulsive until I remember that I’ve been being yelled at by my boss for nearly four years now. I just got tired of being a punching bag because he doesn’t know how to handle his anxiety. Ironically, he’s been a lot gentler since finding out I’m leaving, although he does insist that I’m going to miss him a lot. Ha…

I’ve been feeling burned out at this job for… a while. I’m not entirely sure how long it’s been. My husband says I’ve been complaining about the work environment for years, but I’ve noticed in recent months that I really have no drive to do my work. I sit and zone out at my desk for hours, and end up staying late to catch up, feeling miserable. My therapist and friends and Alex have been pleading with me to quit for at least two years, so. It’s past time.

A theme and something I’ve been working on in therapy is the concept of my own agency. Coming to terms with making my own decisions based on what I want to do, and handling the consequences, including (not) dealing with the reactions of others to my decisions. Understanding that I can actually do things; I’m not trapped under anyone’s control or bound by ‘indentured servitude’ (her words). I realized that I was sitting in my current position and waiting. Waiting either to be fired, or for the stress and anxiety that had been building to finally explode in my face, or for an opportunity to land in my lap and rescue me from my prison. Getting pregnant, maybe. I keep saying I don’t want to work once I’m pregnant. Maybe that was just an excuse I kept in my back pocket to escape my job one day. I kept waiting for a free moment to research other jobs and find something I like better, but every night when I go home from this job, I spend my entire night decompressing. My job is killing me slowly, and I got tired of waiting. He yelled for the third time on such a day and in such a way that my brain finally said, “okay, that’s enough of that,” and I quit. I used my agency.

Things have been weird during my last two weeks with the company. They immediately started leaving me out of lunch plans (and general conversations), my desk has become covered in papers, and my bosses (married, it’s a small company) have seemed very reserved whenever we speak. It’s like I’m suddenly an outsider, after working here for four years, just because I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s a little hurtful, but mostly it’s just awkward. Perhaps they know that the only reason I’m here at this moment is out of the kindness of my heart. It’s not like a two-week notice is the law, after all.

I’m ready to do what’s best for me (at the moment; who knows how my brain will be in two hours). I’m looking forward to it.

-Amy