I Quit

(CW: pregnancy loss) I did it still, knowing I was rubbing salt into an open wound, fleeing from a burning building, vanishing in the night.

I quit long before I handed in the resignation letter to a less-than-enthused manager, hesitant to extend a hand to the white sheet of paper, signed and dated, dangling in front of them. Reluctant to face the reality that what once made their job effortlessly easier now made it considerably harder.

I did it still, knowing I was rubbing salt into an open wound, fleeing from a burning building, vanishing in the night.

I quit when I felt taller than my circumstances, with my head high, chin up, ready to be handed disappointment ungraciously in the form of backhanded expressions of kindness. Gentle, persuasive manipulation tactics to stay, stay small, and keep peddling for someone else.

I quit caring about the outcome after I realised that what I could control was more than enough for me to live the life I wanted to.

To live the life I deserved, I needed to quit wondering what would happen if people thought the worst of me, if people acted as though they no longer needed me even though they ultimately did. Toying with my tender desire to always be of service, to always help wherever I can.

The tale ingrained for millennia: never ask too much, never be too needy, and never take up more space than what is granted.

But I quit still, my skin now calloused from a relentless year of showing up every day, paying off on the one thing I needed it for. To leave.

I quit, though bets were hedged on my performance, expectations set sky-high, resources pooled into my cup, only for me to declare, “I can never be what you want.” I quit, fully aware that there was no going back, no negotiations, and no hesitation, knowing the next stage was unknown.

I quit after I lost the pregnancy back in January. Back when my world imploded into a foreign state of disarray, of chaos, endless pain, and darkness.

When the universe slipped through my fingers on the bathroom floor, realising that very little I’ve ever thought needs caring about actually does.

The bottom-feeder corporate job wrapped in a pretty government bow rusted from the blood overnight, and no matter how hard I tried to scrub it clean, it never came out the same again.

I always knew the day would come, every slog of a shift inching closer to being anchor-less, fearful that if I committed to quitting soon I would be filled with regret. And too late, consumed by rage.

I quit believing the narrative that I have to be more than just an artist. That I have to prove my worth through a paycheck, by getting my hair done every six weeks, and looking sophisticated in corporate attire that only constricted my movement.

It’s as though my pre-frontal cortex developed overnight and I realised that I am safe. That the mental monsters chasing me on the commute to and from the office were mere mirages obscuring my view of the present day. Of the present love, sanctity, respect, honour I now embody.

I quit, trusting that it will work out. That what is meant to take form will. That the baby will happen. That the tension in my shoulders will soften. That the artist who dreams within is welcome.

That the life I am leading deserves my full attention, and that I reserve the right to make the most of it in whatever way I please.

So, I quit.

Sincerely yours,
D.

I do not recall or recognise where this was taken, but my oh my it’s scrummy as hell. Lutruwita/Tasmania.