I left work a little early today, claiming a nausea that didn’t quite cover it. I’d bought myself an extra half an hour at home between jobs and I spent it lying on my unmade bed. The tears had passed and a sort of scary, quiet hopelessness had replaced them.
This isn’t about the long hours. I’ve worked long hours before and that isn’t the problem. The problem is this new, strange sense of despair that’s descended upon me and stolen whatever reason I had for waking up in the morning.
There’s been a lot to grieve lately.
I called the temp agency and told them that Friday will be my last day. They aren’t happy about it and neither am I, but of all the people I could hurt in this situation, I decided that this option was the least destructive. I’m not saying it was a good decision, but I do think it was the right one. Sometimes those aren’t the same.
So, I’m going to have a normal schedule again next week. And I’m going to find a permanent job and I’m going to finish a song I’m working on and I’m going to clean my room and I’m going to wake up every morning, whether I have a reason or not. And if I don’t have a reason, I’m going to make one up.