Thoughts on Working for The Man and Creative Death

I recently discontinued my employment at a conservative financial institution where I was miserable. I swapped for a non-profit providing microloans to underrepresented groups in my community, and my heart is breaking. I feel a passion that went out of me rushing back in force and at the same time must acknowledge this terrible hollow I’ve been feeling. I felt like an ice cube being smashed into a water bottle that is too small to admit it. I was compacted and forced into this stifling job, and I allowed it, then let my personality dissipate into a quiet nothingness.


It’s not the kind of thing you’d ever want your younger self to know. All in a moment I am Joy and Sorrow, which cracks the soul I think. It hurts like watching slides of rescue dogs being rehabilitated over soulful soundtracks. My life, I could kiss it so sadly on the forehead right now.


Don’t confuse me, I am looking forward, and so damn excited. I just need to feel this and remember it, because nothing is more terrifying than realizing just how much hurt a person can deaden themselves to. I am paid to create every day, and every day I am contributing to my community, and it matters what I do, and I matter.


How did I let an invisible entity strip everything away? It wasn’t even what I wanted. I feel so emotionally violated, after the fact, and I didn’t know how much I’d brushed off and compromised until I had a full body power outage.


It’s like when you talk to your girlfriends, and realize that every single one of you has at least one story about deciding after they brought someone home from the bar that maybe they didn’t want to, but doing it anyways because they didn’t want to be rude.


When you’re talking about it, all of a sudden you have that holy-shit moment where you think, “everyone I know has been taken advantage of, and so have I,” followed by, “but I guess it doesn’t count b/c I didn’t stop them,” followed by, “why the actual fuck does that make it ok?”


I am so disgusted in myself that I am not ready to be excited about the next big thing. It’s all so crushing and freeing at once and it feels like death. I feel as if I am being reincarnated as myself, though without having moved backwards in time or wisdom. It makes me envision fish with the bends that you see once in a while on the discovery channel, with their eyes and tummies all bloated and bulging and they look so shocked.


This has been my jacked and broken first step back into the writing community, be patient with your reformed deserter I promise to get back to familiar me soon.


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