Right off the bat: I resigned from my work of seven years.
Almost seven years, actually—if I stayed a few more weeks, it really would’ve been a full seven years. But I couldn’t stay for another month. I was risking too many things already, like what little was left of my sanity.
When I was still working, I dreamed of weekends. But more than most do because—according to company rules—we worked for six days a week. And even if all employees received paid vacations that must be used, they proved insufficient. They may do the trick for the other guys in the company. But they did not face the toxicity that I did, which I had enough of.
So I resigned.
And here I am, bumming around the house, getting more weekends in one week than most. Been so in what would be two months next week. My tenure did a number on me and all this lazing around has proven to be therapeutic in many ways.
Yet I fear the comforts of home. It tempts me every day to stay and do nothing. It’s easier to stay in the warmth of my bed and not look for work again. But I am certain I will do this, one time or another.
Here I stand, seeing a storm heading my way. It lies between me and my destination. I know what I am in for. I will brave it. I know how to brace myself. The conditions have changed. And so have I. Greater days and weekends are out there. With or without an umbrella, they wait for me.
I will weather.