I have been at my job for SIX YEARS.
While this means that I am now fully vested, it also kind of makes me want to cry.
It’s entirely possible that all six years of working here means is that I’ve wasted six years of opportunities to do something else? And I don’t have the resources to start over or pursue a new direction; I do have the responsibilities to remind me that I shouldn’t.
I strongly suspect that, where my career is concerned, I’ve hit the ceiling, I’ve accomplished all that I can within my current organization and possibly even within my profession. Even if I could take a next step, would I want to? After all, my life currently involves working like a fiend all week, then sleeping all weekend, in order to muster the energy to repeat the process. Wouldn’t promotion or advancement just mean MORE of being always overworked and overtired?
Plus, nothing about my job is conducive to having a home life — nothing about any job is, really. (I should know, I’ve had many.) I’ve never operated within a work context that encouraged me to spend quality time with my loved ones. I rarely get to see my mom and siblings, I’ll never be able to have kids of my own, and even hanging out with My Fella feels like a clumsily strung-together sequence of precious, stolen moments.
And forget about time to think or daydream or imagine; forget about creative self-indulgence (which is what it is) in any form. I can no longer justify writing stuff unless it pays, because otherwise it’s just selfishness. I need to stop with the hobbies, too. I can barely make it through the month on my salary, so how can I ever retire?
I’m not even sure what I mean by “retire.” I think I might mean a gun and two bullets — one for me, one for any fool who tries to stop me. Or, you know, in case I miss the first time.
But this is a ways down the road: I’m still healthy and, it seems, employable. One day, maybe sooner than later, that will no longer be the case. And at that point, I can’t be a burden. It’s not fair to anyone.
Happy work-iversary to me.