I have no intention of ¬†quitting my job so soon after returning from Red Mountain Resort. Except, the words from the shaman and my reiki practitioner echo in my ears: remove what it is from your life that is causing you the unhappiness.
And, while I am no longer unhappy, I certainly do not enjoy walking into the back office four days a week and doing the same annoying tasks, dealing with managing people who can’t be managed …
It’s hard to avoid this simple fact staring me down: I am done with my job.
“Well, why don’t you?,” she asks, staring me dead on over lunch. Instantly, it takes me back to my conversation with Katie in Thailand and the excuses I was throwing out to defend myself for not being ready to leave the country.
I have yet to ¬†hear back from Thailand, and, to my horror, in the days since the e-mail arrived to my Inbox, the park has been the subject of a raid. I don’t have an exit plan, other than going into business with myself and trying to make ends meet.
It’s not time to quit my job.
“You know, you’re right,” I say, surprising myself. “I’m going to resign. Right now.”
What. The. Hell.
But, once I’ve said it, it feels right.
Yes. I am going to go ahead and quit my job.
So, I shoot a text to my boss, asking for a phone conference. He responds immediately, telling me “no,” he can’t talk with me, and then follows up with another text asking what I want to talk to him about.
He’s got to know. In a previous meeting, he had all but given me permission to quit. He went as far as to say, “D, I understand if this job doesn’t work out for you anymore since we can’t give you a raise or hire you full-time. I know you have to look out for you.”
And, that is exactly what I am doing.
He and I go back and forth for a few messages, as I carefully tip-toe around resigning via text. Finally, when he tells me he is driving and can’t talk (although most of our conversations take place in just that manner), I throw my hands in the air.
I’ve got no choice.
“I am done,” I say to my friend, furious at his brushing me off, as we walk back up to her office and I borrow a computer.
Then, quickly, with some instruction from my career counselor mom and life-long government employee father, I craft a short, sweet resignation letter that essentially says:
I quit. My last day is in 10 days. Thanks.
Within moments, my phone rings, and its my boss.
Now he can talk to me.
“I don’t understand why you don’t want to work here anymore,” he says, entirely unaware of the stress which used to render me awful.
“I don’t want to work for you anymore. I want to write, and I want to be happy, and I can’t do those things so long as I work with the company,” I explain.
He doesn’t get it. And, after saying it over and over, I decide to just give up. “It’s just not going to work for me anymore,” I offer.
Then, I hang up the phone.
Even if I hadn’t been ready to work for myself, suddenly, that is exactly what’s happening.
And the roller coaster begins to shoot down the first drop …