Quitter. Don’t you just despise that word? Don’t you wish people never find out you gave up on something, on anything?
Today, I decided to call it quits with my present job - a job not even two months old. Why? I have several reasons, all of which you can read in a lengthier, if not “rantier” post.
Whether these reasons save me from the crucifying sensation of being labelled a quitter, I will find out soon enough. But right now, I am unwell. I know I wanted to quit. I know I wanted to resign. The emotional toll, however, is only sinking in today.
A bad job decision. The struggle to fit in. Difficulty in coping with tasks beyond my professional experience. They seemed to be sufficient reasons to leave. And having passed my resignation letter, I do enjoy a certain sigh of relief, a sliver of peace I haven’t had the last seven weeks.
But I am also disappointed. In myself, more than anything else. And foolishly, disappointed in the universe’s ways. Like the gods had something to do with my personal setbacks. Like spirits possessed me to make such a huge decision. Not a tinge of sadness rather a melange of shattered self-esteem, interior agitation, and overwhelming loneliness. Disappointed because I could have been more graceful when the days were rough rather than bombarding family and friends with my defeatist outlook.
I have three weeks left. No new job waiting in the wings, except for a few applications that I’ve been praying to hear from. Back to the drawing board it seems, and back to square one.
Quitter. Am I one? Or is it just like gay, another label I should not pay attention to? Weak? Perhaps. Weak against the challenges thrown my way. Quitting the battle. Tired. Too tired to think, feel, write.