The question of why I quit my job comes up a lot, in interviews, general convastion, a counselling session.
Im going to attempt to keep this as short as I can, because its difficult for me to explain and I can still very clearly remember how I felt in that period of my life.
First I’ll paint the picture of the job. A popular tourist destination in a cafe. Barista skills required, fresh produce made daily.
By this point I’d finished uni this was my fifth year of returning to this job. I knew it inside out. Same shit different day everyday. I now had a full time contract.
The summer of 2016 was the worst year of work. There were issues with a new member of staff who let her mental health be an excuse for her behaviour. She targeted my friends and upset everyone. Management couldn’t deal with it. It took months to get rid of her. The situation was not handled well.
I worked with my mum, she being the cook, the kitchen attached to the cafe. No escape. She there to moan about work during the day and it would continue at home.
I started supervising, it gave me a purpose I enjoyed the responsibility, to a certain point. I was split between two sites, I tried making small changes to benefit the site, add more seating more space to move around. But I got shut down, by old members of staff. Refusing to change. I couldn’t do anything.
Frequently i’d shut myself in the loo and cry.
That wasn’t what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
The above might all seem petty but unless you were there and you knew those people you cant comprehend how belittled that made me feel.
I have a degree. Im better than this.
I had three thousand pounds of savings.
Everything got to me, the place the people the lack of respect.
I’d never get a supervisors wage because it wasn’t within the budget.
But they carried on using me.
I hated it.
Despised certain members of staff.
I was nothing.
Every day would lead to anger and frustration.
My anxiety tripled itself, id have dizziness at work and have to be sent home just to be fine in an hour. Id have panic attacks in the morning, dreading the work day ahead of me.
I started going for long drives, alone at night. Hoping for an accident. Anything to end this pointless life.
Sitting on the edge of the cliff, hysterically crying, wanting it all to end but not being brave enough to do it.
Thought about running away everyday, not telling anyone, disappearing.
Depression kept begging me to end it. Jump off that cliff, crash my car. Over dose.
Anxiety guilt tripped me into living.
Except for this one night during that summer. I lost it completely, I saw no reasoning. Felt nothing but lost. I wanted it all to stop. Nothing was changing I had to finish it.
But something made me tell people where I was. The option was there for them.
They might not know it but they saved me that night. The most unexpected people.
Not any of my close friends. Who saw where I was, who didn’t message me.
Because I was a fucking mess.
To this day I am not sure if I would’ve gone through with it. All I know is that I wasn’t going home that night.
There were two choices, death or disappear. Who knows which I would’ve done.
That feeling didn’t leave me. It stuck around. I had to change something and it had to be the thing that was making me the most miserable, my job. It was the only thing I had control over.
So at the end of September I handed in my months notice with no other job to go to.
I remained jobless for 6 months.
But I was productive, I took time out for me. Sought the help I needed, started taking medication, had cognitive behaviour therapy and general counselling.
I made a promise to myself that id never let something take me into the darkness again.
Its still there. Waiting for me. I can feel its icy fingers reaching out when things go wrong.
I can feel myself slipping again now.
This is how it started before.