Concession Does Not Mean Failure

I think I am throwing in the towel. The job I moved 2,000 miles from home for is not the job I was made to believe it would be. At times it feels beneath me. At times I am so bored I do not know what to do with my days. I am disappointed, yes, because this was the one place I thought I could be happy. It took me out of a very toxic environment, but one where I worked my ass off and got results, into one where everyone is pleasant but I have nothing to do. So, after four months and countless hours of my brain going insane of ways to make it better, I am seriously considering quitting. It’s frightening. I don’t know what I will do – but I know I cannot continue to do this. I cannot have the constant up and down of periods where I am overjoyed because my boyfriend is here and I am stable paralleled with the depression that sets in when he has gone home and I am left alone. If this continues, I will cease to exist. My life will have no meaning and I will do something stupid and in a heartbeat, be gone.

In some ways this is a frightening prospect. As a bipolar person, it would be the first time in 20 years I do not have health insurance provided by an employer, and I do not know if I could afford it on my own. But in all honesty, the insurance I have now is not helping and I am drowning slowly, day by day, the longer I am here, alone. I would rather take the chance of having to white knuckle my way through life for a spell rather than force myself to get out of bed in the morning to go to a job, into a profession, I am no longer passionate about.

Many would see this as failure. My family may see it that way. But I do not care. What is most important for me at this moment is that I find happiness again. To find my bliss. To be surrounded by those who love and support me and keep me from doing harmful things.

My boyfriend and I discussed it this morning. Maybe this is a mid-life crisis. But I think it is more. It is absolute misery. I could be like my now holier-than-thou sister who seems to forget her many suicide attempts, her last being taking a box of Benadryl and drinking a six pack and telling her husband before he called 911 and she had her stomach pumped. But I don’t want that path. I want my life to have a purpose. I do not feel I have one here and believe that is influencing the depression that hangs over me like a mid-west storm cloud waiting to erupt. The thunder is always rumbling somewhere in the back of my mind. I hear it daily.

So, to me, this would not be failing. I came – I tried. It didn’t work. Like a the twenty pairs of jeans you try on before you find the one pair that works. That makes your ass look amazing. To me, leaving would be a strong statement that tells the world I am finally putting myself first, my health first, and damn the consequences. It will somehow work out. I could cash in my retirement. I could live off that for some time before any financial panic sets in. But I believe something will open up to me before that. A path will be found through this brier patch.

I cannot exhale yet. But I can breathe a little easier this morning. I know I have many demons to face on my way back home. Back to me. But I can almost feel a sliver of hope emerging from those rumbling clouds. Perhaps I had to break and break hard, to understand that life is more than a job or a place. It is about love and sharing time with those who love and support you. And to be the best you can for them, sometimes you have to give up some independence, or the belief of independence, in order to come out on the other side, and be able to give them all of yourself. And when they help you shine, you can give them the best of yourself that you have.

© Sorrow & Kindness


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