The day I received a letter with your name on it was one of the happiest of my life. Twenty-eight-thousand dollars per year, a title in my field. During the interview, I was grilled in your library for a lack of editorial experience, then cried the whole drive home, certain I’d never see you again. I didn’t know how much you’d cost.
At first, you were a point of pride. My own interior cubicle with tall gray walls beneath a fluorescent light that was usually out. Thoughtfully appointed with a stained chair and abused keyboard. The cabinets were packed with artifacts from predecessors—frantic notes, unwanted samples, outdated editing guidelines the boss revered as gospel.
“Baptism by fire” the editors echoed my first few weeks. But it took a few years before my manager had his “come to Jesus moment”—in your parking lot, scraping snow off a pregnant employee’s car at 3 a.m. That was some time after an executive emailed me the Serenity Prayer; I was headed to a mental hospital after burning out under your roof. “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change…”
You were my home before my home was my office. I’d dress up for you, commute at warp speed in rush-hour traffic. Your partitions provided visual barriers, but did nothing to block verbal edits. Mid-morning silence disturbed for a whole wing of writers because I made three spelling errors.
Sweating every syllable, I slowly moved up in rank from incompetent assistant to combat buddy. You were the war zone where we survived. Over hundreds of workdays, an editor who once gave scathing feedback started entering my cube with open arms. One night, he grabbed my face with both hands, drew it close to his and demanded I look at his eyes. Maybe they were twitching from the screen time, but I could feel his breath and turned away.
Long hours with you started making me sick. I blamed myself as pre-existing conditions I once managed became unbearable. Remember when I sprinted down your hallway and threw up, bent over in crippling pain? Turns out a diet of caffeine, NSAIDs and stress causes ulcers. I left you briefly for the dentist, who prescribed muscle relaxers for the teeth grinding. I can’t remember what the email said, only the pressure as I held back tears on my walk to the stall. I looked down, confused to see drops of blood splatter against your tiles: my first spontaneous nosebleed.
It was well after midnight in that same ladies’ room when I told a co-worker I couldn’t do it anymore—that I’d had a breakdown from not sleeping a few months prior. She couldn’t either. Now visibly pregnant, she’d requested we avoid late hours that cycle to no avail. She told me she’d recently miscarried after an all-nighter.
We were in your corner office, a bonafide room with a door, when I explained to a superior why I’d ended up at the hospital instead of our trade show. She said she’d seen another editor work (from home) until she collapsed. Your walls couldn’t contain it; burnout is highly contagious.
Leadership never questioned why your cameras showed us leaving in the middle of the night, nor the nonstop activity online. There were no witnesses until the day accounting found us, still working at 6 a.m.
For over four years, I was loyal to you. Since then, I’ve abandoned two employers and been fired by another—the publisher who bought the other mags you once housed. They offered $4,375 severance, but I couldn’t agree to their terms: “That I shall not make, directly or indirectly … any negative or disparaging oral or written statements about, or do anything which portrays the Employer or the Released Parties … in a negative light.”
I’ve come to recognize my memories with you as trauma. There was a time I turned off your lights most nights only to go home and keep working. I’d pull 72-hour shifts, work 80-hour weeks, pumping out copy as fast as humanly possible. Now I think deeper and work slower. I’m chronically nervous and behind. Every job posting has some red flag. “Must be able to thrive in a fast-paced environment”? Hard pass.
This entry will cost about $20. “The letter can’t … say anything negative about an identifiable person [even if you don’t use their name].”
Your owner let go of all holdings; the company no longer exists. The brand I helped build inside your walls went for $45 million alone. Yet protecting a name you once bore still seems worth more than our story. Last I heard, you were up for sale too. Can’t help but wonder what you’re used for now. You’re an asset, after all. Just like me.