Remember my boredom with my job? Well, something else got the best of me and I rage quit. The people pleaser in me put in my two weeks notice without my permission.
But the choice to quit was near instant, in a fit of PMDD rage, driven by
rejection sensitivity. Story of my life. Embarassing.
Two week lster outside of my luteal phase, I actually regreted quitting at all.
The job without the PMDD lens looked rather different.
The demands of my boss felt less of a threat. The critiques from him did as well.
Despite my regret, there was zero chance that I was going to ask for my job back.
Weeks later, standing at the copy machine at my new job, I type my commands onto the screen of the machine.
Nothing happens.
It’s as if the screen isn’t registering my fingertips. I snarl at it in annoyance. No one is safe from my moods today. Not even the robots. I'm hell on heels.
The heels, only add to my irritability.
I wish this had a built-in stylus so I could actually type on this damn thing. Why isn’t this a feature yet? I can’t be the only one that has long nails and clumsy fingers around here.
Reasonably, I fight the urge to smash the screen with my fist. I briefly fanatize about smashing it to bits. I shake the urge from head.
Stop it.
Dismissing the violence, I decide to mention this idea to my boss instead.
Before I lose the nerve, I walk over to his office and tap lightly on his office door. He doesn't answer at first, but then I hear his voice, drifting through the door.
“Come in,” he calls.
Opening the door and entering his office he seems surprised to see me. “Hi, Barry," I say, thinking of how to word my suggestion.
What if he tells you it's stupid?
“Hey, Jess!" he says, his voice ripping through my anxious thought."What can I do for you?”
Swallowing, I work up the nerve to move my tongue.
Seconds feel like hours.
Finally, the words come.
“Actually, I had a design idea for the machines that we sell. I thought maybe you could run it by the manufacturer?”
He gives me a look that I can’t quite place and for a second, I consider bolting out of his office.
“What’s that?” he asks, looking curious with a mix of...something else that I just can't pinpoint. But whatever it is, doesn't seem good.
Taking a deep breath, I decide to just get it over with. “What if, the machines came with a built-in stylus?” I stop to study his expression for approval but he seems confused by the idea and doesn’t say a word at first. I can tell he's choosing his words carefully.
His apprehension only makes me panic even more.
“I just don’t see the point of it,” he says gently.
“Yeah, it’s probably a woman thing,” I say, waving my hand dismissively, feeling my heart sink a little. "I guess it sounded like a better idea in my head," I say giggling nervously. I always giggle when I'm nervous. To the point of being annoying.
Get your head back in the game and out of the clouds, Jessi. Your job isn’t to design the machines. You’re not an inventor. You’re a sales person. Know your role.
Tucking my tail between my legs, I give him a little wave and I go take my place, back at my crusty cubicle. And for no reason at all...it suddenly feels like my world is about to end.
As I walk by the window, I glance nervously out the window as if I expect the sky to be falling.
When I get back to my desk, I reluctantly open my laptop once again.
It hums to life, just like it has hundreds of times before. Something about the sound of it gives me the urge to walk out the door and never return.
Tapping my fingers on my desk, I can feel it creeping in. The sense of restlessness. The itchy ache of rejection. Why am I like this?
Suddenly feeling out of place in my own skin, I want to shed it to the floor, leaving it in a pile of muck beneath my desk, just to escape the sensation.
As my fingertips hover above the keys on my keyboard, below the surface, my perpetual state of boredom begins clawing its way to the surface, seemingly ripping through my flesh, begging me to do something impulsive and preferably irrational.
The need for carefully curated chaos intensifies.
And just like that, this rabid impulsivity is knocking at my door again, threatening to turn my life upside down just to satisfy it.
I know this sensation. This urge. I know me and I know it. I also know that it’s only a matter of time before I’ll give in to it. I always do.
I close my eyes and take a deep inhale and allow myself to exhale as slowly as physically possible, my rising and falling with my effort.
It doesn’t do jack shit.
In the couple months that follow, I manage to resist the urge to burn my life to the ground, but I still spend each month, fighting for my life. Trying to find a reason to hold on.
NEXT: #8 The One With The Coping Mechanism
