I quit my job today. I realized they were firing me, and that I could do a better job on my own. So I grabbed a goldfish, walked out the door, and asked who would be coming with me. Some twitchy blonde followed me out, and we are going to start a business together.
Just kidding, that's Jerry Maguire. But seriously, I quit.
I pondered many a career before deciding on social services. As a second grader, I won Author of the Month and Artist of the Month in consecutive months and decidedly declared I would be an author and an illustrator. This dream was short-lived, as I soon discovered that my talent was more an excellent grip on the rules of English and the patience to stick with a craft consisting of tiny pieces of tissue paper, elmer's glue, and pipe cleaners for longer than 7 minutes than it was raw natural ability.
Then as a young teen, I met a beautiful, inspiring woman who taught me how to assert myself, to channel my inner creative goddess, and to display to the world style, humor, and class without displaying arrogance or, perhaps worse, relying on self-deprecation as a means to show just how quick-witted I could be. I wanted to be everything she was. Melissa, as we will call her (because that's her name), was a seventh grade English teacher with spunk, sass, and Marie Curie-esque intelligence. Let me tell you, friends. If you meet Wonder Woman, you're going to want to grow up to be her. Wonder Woman Melissa was my ticket to Middle School English Teacherdom.
That was certainly a fun thought while it lasted. I tutored a handful of 13somethings in a handful of subjects, English included, throughout high school and college. Explaining sentence structure to a kid who is only with you because he doesn't get to play flag football if he doesn't see you an hour a week will, in fact, cause you to wish you could legally and morally inflict pain upon said child. Not a lot of pain, just enough to make him at least pretend to care what you have to say. And my experiences began and ended before texting was introduced to the world at large. I salute you, 7th Grade Teachers of the Universe. If you get tanked for smacking some child upside the head for texting her "boyfriend" while you are putting all of your underpaid energy into explaining to her the difference between 'your' and 'you're', the world will hate you. I will provide you with a hug and a margarita.
I participated in enough academically based extracurriculars and scored well enough on my ACT exam to obtain a hefty scholarship to a swanky private, Christian college. After a year and a half of that, I announced that I hated it and moved home to pile on mountains of student debt as I attended a mid-level state university. From time to time, I feel regret that I didn't continue with my Suburban Education. Most of the time, I'm just happy that I got out when I did, before I became someone I didn't want to be. I don't know who that person would have been, but I don't really want to know. I'm certainly okay with who I turned out to be, and I believe my educational path played a role in that.
I worked my way through undergrad, working as a Student Activities Director for my church and playing tractors with 3 disturbingly and marvelously adorable children on a farm outside my town for the cash to pay for books and rent. It was during this time that I claimed social services as a definite career choice, thanks to my deep seated love for every page of sociological literature that came across my desk top and a thorough enjoyment of observing and participating in the dynamics of families other than my own. (My own family is a sociological anomaly itself, in which I absolutely love participating.)
After graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology, I held several positions in the fields of social work and human services. My love for people and fascination of social and group processes makes me a prime candidate for direct care positions, many of which are low-paying and all of which involve working with people who have been affected by some sort of Crazy. Most recently, I have been employed as a Mental Health Professional, which placed me in a role of case management and general counseling for community members afflicted by All Kinds of Crazy.
When I first took this position, I was immediately in lust. I had the opportunity to truly effect change in the lives of People Who Need Help! My daily schedule included talking to up to 8 people about their mental, emotional, and physical issues and assisting them with learning coping skills to effectively manage their symptoms of mental illness. My favorite cases included a man who was paranoid that wearing shorts and smoking cigarettes in his basement while listening to Celine Dion (whom he affectionally termed Dion Dion) would cause "everybody to think I'm a fag," and a woman who called me at 7:30 am to tell me she had discovered that her cat likes peanut butter and she thought I might like to know this. As exciting as this job was, the stress of managing the ever-complicated lives of 50 psychiatric patients quickly became overwhelming, to say the least. While dealing with the issues of The Fire and Trial over the last few weeks, it became abundantly clear to me that I was in the wrong place. Or perhaps just the right place at the wrong time. It turns out that it's quite difficult to effect change in the lives of People Who Need Help! when you can't quite deal with your own issues of grief and trauma in a healthy and effective way. I was unhappy every day, and began to dread listening to my messages, answering e-mails, and scheduling assessments. My coworkers commented on my appearance and lack of sleep. My clients reacted to my heightened emotional state with heightened emotions of their own. I was faced with two choices: pull it together and make it work, or give it up and try something different.
And so, I quit. I gave up the fight rather than pushing to make it work. Several months ago, a life coach suggested that I "let go and see what happens." It is not out of character for me to face a challenge with passion, energy, and determination not because I truly believe the end result is what is best for myself or those around me, but because the idea of a challenge is just so seductive. I finally took the advice to let go, and today I brought home my photographs and my world map and my giraffe statue and left my badge and keys in my manager's mailbox. It's not the end of an era, but it's the end of something big. However, the peace of mind and freedom that I feel tells me that it's the beginning of something bigger.
I quit. Now, to begin again.
“Of all the stratagems, to know when to quit is the best." - Chinese Proverb
Just kidding, that's Jerry Maguire. But seriously, I quit.
I pondered many a career before deciding on social services. As a second grader, I won Author of the Month and Artist of the Month in consecutive months and decidedly declared I would be an author and an illustrator. This dream was short-lived, as I soon discovered that my talent was more an excellent grip on the rules of English and the patience to stick with a craft consisting of tiny pieces of tissue paper, elmer's glue, and pipe cleaners for longer than 7 minutes than it was raw natural ability.
Then as a young teen, I met a beautiful, inspiring woman who taught me how to assert myself, to channel my inner creative goddess, and to display to the world style, humor, and class without displaying arrogance or, perhaps worse, relying on self-deprecation as a means to show just how quick-witted I could be. I wanted to be everything she was. Melissa, as we will call her (because that's her name), was a seventh grade English teacher with spunk, sass, and Marie Curie-esque intelligence. Let me tell you, friends. If you meet Wonder Woman, you're going to want to grow up to be her. Wonder Woman Melissa was my ticket to Middle School English Teacherdom.
That was certainly a fun thought while it lasted. I tutored a handful of 13somethings in a handful of subjects, English included, throughout high school and college. Explaining sentence structure to a kid who is only with you because he doesn't get to play flag football if he doesn't see you an hour a week will, in fact, cause you to wish you could legally and morally inflict pain upon said child. Not a lot of pain, just enough to make him at least pretend to care what you have to say. And my experiences began and ended before texting was introduced to the world at large. I salute you, 7th Grade Teachers of the Universe. If you get tanked for smacking some child upside the head for texting her "boyfriend" while you are putting all of your underpaid energy into explaining to her the difference between 'your' and 'you're', the world will hate you. I will provide you with a hug and a margarita.
I participated in enough academically based extracurriculars and scored well enough on my ACT exam to obtain a hefty scholarship to a swanky private, Christian college. After a year and a half of that, I announced that I hated it and moved home to pile on mountains of student debt as I attended a mid-level state university. From time to time, I feel regret that I didn't continue with my Suburban Education. Most of the time, I'm just happy that I got out when I did, before I became someone I didn't want to be. I don't know who that person would have been, but I don't really want to know. I'm certainly okay with who I turned out to be, and I believe my educational path played a role in that.
I worked my way through undergrad, working as a Student Activities Director for my church and playing tractors with 3 disturbingly and marvelously adorable children on a farm outside my town for the cash to pay for books and rent. It was during this time that I claimed social services as a definite career choice, thanks to my deep seated love for every page of sociological literature that came across my desk top and a thorough enjoyment of observing and participating in the dynamics of families other than my own. (My own family is a sociological anomaly itself, in which I absolutely love participating.)
After graduating with a Bachelor of Arts in Sociology, I held several positions in the fields of social work and human services. My love for people and fascination of social and group processes makes me a prime candidate for direct care positions, many of which are low-paying and all of which involve working with people who have been affected by some sort of Crazy. Most recently, I have been employed as a Mental Health Professional, which placed me in a role of case management and general counseling for community members afflicted by All Kinds of Crazy.
When I first took this position, I was immediately in lust. I had the opportunity to truly effect change in the lives of People Who Need Help! My daily schedule included talking to up to 8 people about their mental, emotional, and physical issues and assisting them with learning coping skills to effectively manage their symptoms of mental illness. My favorite cases included a man who was paranoid that wearing shorts and smoking cigarettes in his basement while listening to Celine Dion (whom he affectionally termed Dion Dion) would cause "everybody to think I'm a fag," and a woman who called me at 7:30 am to tell me she had discovered that her cat likes peanut butter and she thought I might like to know this. As exciting as this job was, the stress of managing the ever-complicated lives of 50 psychiatric patients quickly became overwhelming, to say the least. While dealing with the issues of The Fire and Trial over the last few weeks, it became abundantly clear to me that I was in the wrong place. Or perhaps just the right place at the wrong time. It turns out that it's quite difficult to effect change in the lives of People Who Need Help! when you can't quite deal with your own issues of grief and trauma in a healthy and effective way. I was unhappy every day, and began to dread listening to my messages, answering e-mails, and scheduling assessments. My coworkers commented on my appearance and lack of sleep. My clients reacted to my heightened emotional state with heightened emotions of their own. I was faced with two choices: pull it together and make it work, or give it up and try something different.
And so, I quit. I gave up the fight rather than pushing to make it work. Several months ago, a life coach suggested that I "let go and see what happens." It is not out of character for me to face a challenge with passion, energy, and determination not because I truly believe the end result is what is best for myself or those around me, but because the idea of a challenge is just so seductive. I finally took the advice to let go, and today I brought home my photographs and my world map and my giraffe statue and left my badge and keys in my manager's mailbox. It's not the end of an era, but it's the end of something big. However, the peace of mind and freedom that I feel tells me that it's the beginning of something bigger.
I quit. Now, to begin again.
“Of all the stratagems, to know when to quit is the best." - Chinese Proverb
You are my favorite rock star.
ReplyDeleteYay! Comments!
ReplyDelete