Dear Unsealers…

I spent over 100 hours studying material I wasn’t interested in, to earn a job I knew wouldn’t be fulfilling. I began 2024 certified in life, health, property, and casualty insurance. I took the job because it was acceptable, it paid better, and it seemed like it would be less toxic than the five other jobs I had quit over the last eight years.

I was wrong.

I hated it. Each day brought me more anxiety because I knew this wasn’t where I was supposed to be. After thirteen years of hospitalizations, treatment facilities, and medications, the fog of mental illness lifted just enough for me to see that I was headed in the wrong direction. This clarity brought new challenges. In the past, I took jobs I thought I was supposed to, overworked myself, then wondered why I would get burnt out and quit without even putting my two weeks in. I didn’t want that life anymore.

I walked into my (very intimidating) boss’s office to tell her that after months of rigorous training, this wasn’t for me.

I couldn’t stand working for people who didn’t care about my well-being, who told me I was being too much or not enough, who treated me like I was replaceable yet simultaneously put so much responsibility on my shoulders. In my rebellion, I applied to become a server. I hadn’t regularly exercised in years and was not great at lifting heavy things as I have back problems, but it didn’t matter to me. I limped home after shifts, slipped into Epsom salt baths while I winced, used lidocaine patches, and ate ibuprofen like candy. This was a small price to pay for independence.

I got laid off very suddenly, with no prior discussions about my performance. Apparently hands-off management has its’ downside. I worked at another restaurant for a few months, and the same thing happened. Backed into a corner, I filed for unemployment.

I confessed to my Boomer parents (who were so excited that I got a “big girl job” at the insurance agency) that I wasn’t happy. I told them I wanted to write full-time. Mom asked, “What kind of writing?” with concern, pretending it was curiosity. She hates that I write autobiographical poetry, which is why she always says I would be “so good at fiction.” Dad says, “This may be cliché, but I do think Millennials don’t want to work as hard.” Apparently prefacing it with the fact that it sounds cliché was supposed to soften the blow.

I have always been the black sheep of the family, afraid to step out of line. Joined a sorority because Mom wanted me to. Married a man I didn’t want to, had a big wedding because it was the thing to do. Played house for a few years. Got as thin as possible. Postponed tattoos I wanted. I was always living life for someone else…for what someone else wanted me to be.

This year, I was willing to sit in the discomfort and embarrassment of not having my worth tied to my income or productivity. I went to multiple interviews and for once, I was honest. I wasn’t playing a part so they would pick me. I sat with the disgust of years of corporate abuse, systemic ableism, discrimination, and bullying I tolerated just to barely afford being alive. I turned multiple prospects down. At first, it was painful to say no. I over-apologized and gave long explanations. Trauma makes you feel like you owe everyone a piece of yourself; that you are not autonomous over your will and your body.

2024 was the year of “No.” I said no to shitty jobs that made me want to die. I said no to unhealthy family patterns of codependency and compliancy. I said no to situations and people that hurt me. I said no because it felt right. I said no, because I could. The discovering is in the declining. The moments of feeling uncomfortable, the pauses when you consider changing your mind. The grief over all the times you said yes when you felt backed into a corner. The exhaustion of self-sacrifice, the years lost to unconscious behaviors. The joy of learning to trust yourself.

There are days I become stuck in my mind, replaying stories of how lazy and worthless I am, how I am wasting time every minute that I am not job hunting or writing. I am slowly learning to combat these fictional tales that capitalism and hustle culture have drilled into me. Sometimes, I long for the days where I could compartmentalize better. I could go to work on autopilot, come home, get high, then do it all again. But those days have run out.

Thank God for that.