Holy hell, has it been a minute.

I’ve been walking around in a daze for the past week.

I’ve done a thing.

A thing I’ve never done before.

A week ago Sunday, I finished payroll, doing my best to ensure “my people” would be paid correctly. I then called the supervisor on duty. I had her watch me as I packed up my bag, left a resignation letter on my interim boss’s desk, and I handed the supervisor on duty my badge and keys. 

My hands shook as I punched out for the last time.

I’ve never, ever done such a thing before.

My resignation letter is probably the only resignation letter in the history of resignation letters that came with footnotes and citations. I spent HOURS on it.

And then I realized it didn’t matter. What I had to say didn’t matter.  Nothing anyone had to say mattered.  And it hurt that it didn’t matter.

Ultimately, that is why I left.

And so the note that I actually left simply said, “Please accept my resignation effective immediately. Neither this job nor this company is a good fit for me. Best wishes, and thank you for your understanding.”

It does matter why the company wasn’t a good fit for me, but it doesn’t matter today. Not right now.

Tomorrow, maybe.

A year from now, more likely.

But not now.

Perhaps that gauzy daze has finally cleared.  It has, after all, been a week. 

For the first week, I couldn’t write. I couldn’t think. I just kind of la-la’ed around, like a pool noodle floating on the surface of a pool. The wind blew me one way, then another. I just floated. 

Not in a Pennywise sort of way, but more of a stunned silence. Did I really just do that? 

That first Monday, my first official day of unemployment, I discovered that my dentist wanted to do something that would amount to me handing over about $11,000—an impossibility at this time. Maybe it’s an impossibility for a long, long time. 

And then found that the mini-job I had lined up for “after” had been filled by someone else.

My leaving wasn’t an impulsive decision—I had sat on it for at least four months. I had looked for other jobs, afraid of that gap between one health insurance plan and another. I had been terrified of that gap, but I didn’t find anything I could do. Not yet, at any rate.

It’s a weird time. To the best of my knowledge, I have only been unemployed twice in my so-called career. Once, when I moved to Arizona, but that didn’t last long. I worked through an agency temping until I landed a job at American Express.

The other, when I left my husband and moved back to Mississippi. 

What ties us to jobs that no longer fit us?  This was a temporary job that lasted over a decade. I loved the field; I loved the people.  The job was just…blah. 

Routine. Boring. 

Ultimately, comfortable.  Familiar. Better here, where I know what I’m doing and how to get things done (two separate things, I might add), than out there, where I would know neither. 

For the past year, it has only been the insurance. Well, mostly the insurance. My boss of the past decade left almost two months ago; I knew when she left, I’d be soon gone, whether or not I had a job waiting for me. 

But the insurance. 

I have Rheumatoid Arthritis. I really, really, really need insurance.

The fear of not having insurance kept me tied to a job and a company that sucked both the energy and soul out of me. 

I have struggled with fear—especially of the unknown—for just about my entire life.

The allowing of that fear to control me ended with a resignation letter of a mere 26 words.  I don’t think I’ve ever been so pithy in my life.

But it’s done.

And now, wading through the daze is done, too.

When I was in grad school, I found this  sign in one of the schools we visited. 

 

Despite its run-on sentence, its lack of either a period or a semi-colon, it seems especially fitting now. 

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