So Maybe This Is What Emancipation Felt Like...

It was Wednesday. I sat across the street from my place of work as I had on many other occasions in the Starbucks on the corner of 76th. I glanced out the window with terror, shaken by the sensations that just the mere thought of entering my place of employment had begun to evoke within me. Aprehension. Anxiety. Hesitancy. A list of other undesireable adjectives could be inserted here.

8:50 A.M. Almost time to walk over. God I do not want to go in there. I do not want to work today. I feel exhausted. Am I crazy? Is this what other people feel like before they go to work? Is it the job, is it me...job, me, job, me. No, it's definitely the job. It was the job.

I went in, clocked in as usual at 8:55 and made the walk down the two sets of stairs and into the basement. The F-ing basement. Like Joe Versus the Volcano, I worked in the basement of a store sharing space with the apartments upstairs, ornamented with fluorescent lights and adorned with brick archways for that superior 'feel.' Eight months of fluorescent lights, brick archways, no lunch breaks, concrete floors, assembly-line work conditions and no technician had put me on the brink of pharmaceutical disaster. I was a physical wreck---20 lbs lighter than a month and a half prior and achy all over, dehydrated, sleep deprived and over-all, deprived of LIFE.

I admit, I signed up for the duty. I asked for the overtime and I most certainly tore through the first few months of employment in a new pharmacy with the fervor and grit of a strung-out rodeo clown. I was novel, brave, earnest, dignified, diligent, accomodating---I was the epitome of customer service, charm and beneficence. Until I wasn't. Until I assumed the look of a maniacal, waif-like crack addict.

I was always a workaholic. I have been for years and I have worked 60+ hour weeks without a second thought for eons. For some reason, this was different. Was it the basement? Maybe. Was it the demands of the clientele? Probably not. Was it the hours spent, day after day, on my feet, pulled in 12 directions, responsible for the work of three people when I am merely but one? I suppose so.

Well how in God's name did I allow this to happen for so long, one might ask. I had to ask myself the same thing. The best answer that I can come up with is that I have always been the one who deserved the worst treatment. I have always given far more and accepted far less than what I deserve. One of the toughest elements of such a 'disease,' is retraining yourself to make different choices: to work less, give less, go to the gym less, spend less, and most of all, tell YOURSELF 'yes' and others 'NO'. This was my first lesson in doing such a thing. At around 11 A.M. that day, I texted my boss that I would be leaving at 3 P.M. and had asked for relief the previous day. After a bit of a disagreement, he told me that relief would arrive at 5 P.M. Reluctantly, I agreed. To be honest, I have no idea if my body would have made it that day.

The mere presence of my physical being in this place had begun to manifest as aches, pains, raging anxiety and rampant feelings of depression. The moment I left the building...the moment I set foot on concrete---I felt relief. Sounds crazy, I know. It is, however the absolute truth.

5 P.M. rolled around, no one had arrived to take my place and so, for the first time in my career at this pharmacy, for this corporation, I asserted my place in the world. I did it to save my own life. I texted my boss and stated that I was leaving, locking the pharmacy and relinquishing my place there, as difficult as it was to leave my favorite customers behind. He asked me to stay and I declined.

I grabbed my belongings, removed my keys from my ring, placed them in a vial and rolled around them my letter of resignation. As I locked the gate, people were waiting, their faces filled with bitter confusion and angst. I looked around and said 'I am sorry' to all and departed my tomb, eager to see the light of day.

Leaving was difficult for many reasons, some of which only I can understand. Sometimes, lessons are painful. After I arrived at my apartment, I sat for 20 minutes and cried, not out of sadness but out of anger. Anger at myself for being so diseased, subjecting my body to pain and pushing myself so hard. Anger at myself for allowing it to hurt until I couldn't take it anymore. Most of all, though, I was angry with those that I worked so hard to please. I had given every particle of my being and every piece of my soul to that place and those patients, half killing myself in the process. What I got in return, was absolutely nothing. I realized, at this moment, that this was all I ever give to myself---NOTHING.

This day marked the start of my liberation. I have one month before my new job starts. I have one month to focus on teaching myself that I am the most important. I am the most valuable possession that I have in this life. I had better take care of me, because unfortunately, when push comes to shove---no one else will.

Red....it's a good choice for a blog. It's the color of the Root Chakra, the first chakra---the chakra of survival.