In Which I Throw A Bunch Of Papers in The Air And Say…

Fuck This Shit

Everyone has a limit.

I reached my limit months ago.

In fact fuck it – I think I reached it YEARS ago.

That point where you say, quite honestly, “Fuck this shit”.

Fuck it. Fuck all of it.

I’m tired – no, wait – I’m fucking exhausted. I seem to have reached a stage in my life where I feel like I’m working my tits off, all for nothing. Every single bloody day, it feels like I am doing everything I can to Just Not Drown. Like I’m doing everything I can to be appreciated. Like I’m doing everything I can to not have to deal with douchecanoes on a regular basis.

But this week, I feel like I am frigging done.

I want to quit everything. EVERYthing.

EV UH REE THING.

Lately I spend every day wondering why the hell I’m doing what I’m doing. Which is a shame, because I usually love what I do with a passion I can’t even explain. But over the last 6 months, I feel like I’ve been broken, and then broken again, and then broken some more, and then set on fire, and then broken a teensy bit more, possibly for good measure.

Don’t get me wrong. On their wedding day, the clients I’ve had have made my heart sing with the choirs of a thousand litre bottles of Kraken. But once they’re done with me, they’re off into the wonderful ether, and I have to stop calling/emailing/hiding under their bed, because we all have to move on, because I’m just doing a job. A job for them. Apart from those I’m ACTUALLY friends with, which is always nice.

But I also spend so much time wondering why the hell this job is so hard. And I’m not going to lie, I’m so fucking exhausted right now, and so painfully skint, that the idea of doing the most mundane 9-5 office job, with a guaranteed income, and guaranteed hours, and all the security etc, is looking really appealing.

Which makes me sad, and resentful of myself, and then I realise I’m being a bitch, and then that makes me hate myself even more, and I’m all “WTF AM I SUPPOSED TO DO OMFG.”

Is it possible to love a job too much? Is it possible that it IS in fact, a completely idiotic thing to do? Is it the most dumbest thing ever, to want to throw your heart and soul into something which you know makes people feel awesome, but can seemingly destroy you the second your back is turned?

I’m the crappiest business woman out there. Sweet lord Jesus, I wouldn’t even call myself a business woman, it’s shocking. But I’ve worked hard, you know? I’ve tried. I’ve tried so bloody hard.

So here I am, at another crossroads in my life, where I ask myself the question which I’ve tried to avoid asking for a verrrrrrrrrry long time.

Am I done? Is my time with this done, now? Is this the point where I sing the dramatic song on the corner of the stage, in darkness bar one spotlight? And as that single fat tear rolls down my cheek, I clutch my bosom, and –

Geeze, maybe I should go into amateur dramatics. (I dabbled in that as a kid. Was bloody hilarious. Endless Gilbert and Sullivan can really do your head in, though.)

I feel like I’m done. I don’t want to be, not at all. Not even in the slightest. If I was done, I would have actually just quit already, a long time ago. But it feels like I’ve reached the point where someone else is telling me I’m done. Someone else beating me up with a baseball bat, telling me I’ve reached my limit.

Which isn’t fair, because I wasn’t ready to be done yet. Not by a long shot; I felt like I was REALLY just getting started.

Fuck this shit.

Silent Sunday

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