Well, actually, three days ago I quit my job. Between the crushing uncertainty, crippling fear, and near drowning by a week of laundry that needed washing, it has taken me three, THREE days to say those words aloud - “I quit my job”.
I didn’t just quit my job however. I walked out. No two weeks notice, no words, no nothing. I clocked out, left my badge in a locker, and left. I was low. I felt like a quitter. A loser. But I couldn’t do it anymore; my job was not an everyday desk job, nor was it extraordinary. But it was threatening my mental well-being, and I had to make a choice. My mental health or a good paying job. Some might have taken the job, and had a more, ‘if it isn’t killing me it’s making me stronger’ mentality. I chose my health over the good paying job; what the job was is no longer important. Not right now, anyway.
In three days I have washed load after load of clothing. I have cleaned my room, kitchen, and living room. I have played with my four month-old puppy, and taught her how to sit. Only when she wants to of course. I have spent more time with my boyfriend than I have gotten to in months. We live together.
In three days I have stressed, evaluated, and decompressed. I have another job lined up starting in five weeks, and until then I will be working at a small sub shop.
In three days I have loved harder than I have ever yet to have loved. I love my boyfriend who has not only supported my decision, but helped me come to the correct one. Who has vowed to help me through these five weeks.
In just three days, my life has completely and irrevocably changed.
