I'm a quitter.

Got a job, left a job, back to being unemployed. Here is why, if you really want to know.

Photo by Andrew Neel on Unsplash

So much has happened since my last post in July, but I’ll start with what’s on my mind: I did land another job in August, but today, I quit.

I know it seems sudden. But ever since my mental breakdown in May (brought on by a short stint in a different call center position), I’ve been very mindful about my health, both mentally and physically. And this current place was gearing up to be a wrecking ball on my mind and body.

I won’t name where I worked, but I will share that it was an administrative assistant role. The work itself wasn’t necessarily difficult, but it piled up quickly (when I was hired, I was warned that it’s a job for two people, but that they were going to eventually bring in a second person…I could’ve bugged them more about bringing someone else in, but that wouldn’t have solved the general bad vibe of the place). The expectations and assumptions from my coworkers and higher up’s was an every-day issue. My so-called training was minimal, there’s no HR department nor anyone that I felt safe with if I had an issue to discuss, and communication wasn’t anyone’s strong point in that office. There were no official break times, and I sometimes went without one. They had everyone download an app on their phone that basically kept me as always available to calls/texts, even if I was on a break that I could snag. Their calendar was hell to manage and schedule appointments for. They paid me $17/hour to deal with all of that, and couldn’t even offer me health insurance (though they dangled it like a carrot in front of me as something that they “soon” may be able to offer—and I took the bite).

But the worst part was my boss. He triggered the fuck out of me. He reminded me of both my brother and my dad, in ways that made my childhood pretty shitty. His moods were mercurial, and they were everyone else’s problem but his own. He was blunt to a fault, demanding, hard to read, a hard-ass, and he set my nervous system on fire, even when I wasn’t in the office. I’m tired of him living in my head. I’m tired of giving him space and consideration that he wouldn’t give me. He’s the main reason I had to get out.

Yet, with all of those reasons, I know how this looks. I know I’m an unreliable person to businesses, because I will prioritize my well-being over a company. But also, shouldn't that be the norm? Why is it so bad to be able to want to work at a job that didn’t make me feel like shit? Why should I be expected to suck it up and absorb it into my body, until my brain begins to crack, and my stomach starts revolting (because that’s a fun thing I’ve been dealing with—the body keeps score, y’all)? Because capitalism demands it? Because that’s just the way things are? Why?

I’m also aware that there’s a grey line between self-preservation and self-sabotage, and it’s sometimes really hard to know where I’m leaning. I’m very aware that I put myself and my family back into a hard financial position. But no degree of wishing that a job will work out can guarantee that it will.

I wish I was made of stronger stuff. I wish I wasn’t so sensitive to tones of voice and facial expressions, and that I didn't replay interactions and scenarios over and over in my head. I wish that my medications and therapy and support system were enough to help me cope and survive that job. But they weren’t and aren’t. And it’s no one’s fault—well, some could be mine. I’m not perfect. But I won’t stop trying to find a job that I can do. I’ve just been striking out lately.

So, that’s the latest thing going on. I’ll be back on the job hunt. And I don’t blame anyone for thinking less of me, and no longer offering help with job postings or finances or suggestions. I don’t think very highly of myself right now, either. But I know my limits. And I know this would’ve happened, eventually. I just wanted to prevent another in-patient stint, or worse.

My nesting partner/spouse says they understand. And I really think that they do. They’ve had to do something similar in the past a couple of times, so I’m fortunate that there’s empathy there. But I’m still going to feel guilty. I’m still going to feel like I’m letting my family down. And I’m still going to do everything I can to help us out. Donating plasma, pet sitting, opening an OF, SSDI for crippling anxiety/mental health issues, looking in to both full-time and part-time work that I can physically do (I need to be able to sit for most of my shifts), selling some of my stuff (including our second car, potentially). I’m looking in to options.

I have to believe I’ll find something, or a few somethings. I have to. And even when feeling like a fuck-up, I’m trying to believe that even if I didn't make the “right” decision, I at least made a hard one for decent reasons.

I don’t expect sympathy. But I hope that y’all won’t think too much less of me, just for trying to survive.