One Year, Thirteen Days

ONE YEAR, THIRTEEN DAYS

By Sarina Milonis

One year, thirteen days.

That’s how long I’d been fading there.

“Where is it? I need this badge for work. I need it to clock in and for timekeeping. It’s been over a week, and I can be patient with most things, but I need it,” the employee said, tiptoeing the fine line between passive and aggressive that is ever so present in corporate environments.

I stared at her blankly, annoyed that she was doing everything except understanding my words. Then, as my mind wandered, I realized I wasn’t as annoyed as I usually am. I recognized that there was annoyance somewhere deep down, but I couldn’t feel it as much. The very feeling of annoyance itself now felt more like disconnection… apathy instead of anger.

As I went for a stroll in my mind, the employee tapping her foot on the ground brought me back to Earth. She finally wasn’t speaking, but instead staring at me intently. She was waiting for a response to whatever she’d said while I was on my mental journey.

“Yeah, so, I’ll level with you,” I said calmly. “If it’s not here, it means it’s not done yet. This happens a lot. Feel free to reach out to her and check on it.” I turned around and left it at that.

Interactions like these at work used to make my eye twitch. Now they just made me shrug. I never wanted that. To be numb. But at this point, I’d forgotten what it was like to be any other way. Occasionally, I’d have a breakthrough where I would grab my pencil and sketch and be filled with joy for a moment, but that didn’t happen often.

I went about the rest of my day, business as usual. Staying numb in the cage of my mind. Going through the motions but careful not to emote. I got the mail, sorted it, and took it where it needed to go. I opened the packages and put them where they belonged. I prepared the conference rooms and stacked the papers and put everything in order. Everything was in its neat little place now. Everything except my soul.

This was how I was supposed to live? An exoskeleton with nothing inside, a ghost, moving through the motions while my mind and my heart drift farther and farther apart? Had the walls here always been so gray? I had been so full of hope when I’d first walked in the door here, hearing a voice deep inside but I hushed her and told her to “be calm, be quiet, be good. Don’t you want a comfortable life with a predictable schedule? Just be quiet, fit the mold, and it’s all yours. Don’t speak up, don’t right wrongs, and certainly don’t challenge any concepts.” When did I become this? This simply wasn’t “me” anymore.

I used to dream of dousing the world with color. Of creating things that made people feel raw and messy and alive. I wanted to paint murals that screamed from buildings and conveyed powerful messages of love and hope and freedom and agency. I had ideas — wild ones. Ones that made my heart tingle and my head buzz. But I traded them in for a quiet desk and a predictable paycheck. For quarterly reviews and PowerPoints. I told myself there’d be time later. That I could sketch during lunch or paint on weekends. But the truth is, dreams don’t like being told to wait. They grow impatient. They start to rot, and if you aren’t careful, part of you might rot with it. Something was rotten here.

The air in the office felt like dust trapped in a vent, stale and metallic. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a noise I’d always tried to tune out and tell myself wasn’t deafening. I was starting to realize this was a warning from my nervous system that I’d ignored far too long. My hands sat limp on the keyboard, waiting for orders I no longer wanted to follow. The breakroom microwave beeped in the distance, releasing the grotesque scent of tilapia and Brussels sprouts that the Director ate every day. It always wafted through my vent around 12:10. My stomach curled in protest, and I swallowed to keep that feeling at bay. I looked around at the soft gray walls, the fake cheer of the Employee of the Month posters, the neat little rows of people doing what they were told, even though some of it was just plain wrong. I couldn’t breathe. This wasn’t merely a job, but rather a snuffer, extinguishing whatever spark was left in me. Sitting still for one more moment felt more dangerous than any risk I’d ever been afraid to take.

And then I felt it.

It started like a stomach ache but traveled up into my chest and throat until it reached my eyes and tears filled them and spilled out. “You're not dead yet…WAKE UP!” my inner voice bellowed, growing louder and louder until my ears were ringing from the inside out, and I began to feel alive. Trembling and tingling all over, I pulled myself to my feet, stabilizing on my shaky legs. I looked around, observing the office full of dedicated worker bees, none of whom seemed to take notice of me in my current condition: weepy, wobbly, eyes red and cheeks wet with tears.

"I quit," I declared quietly. No one took notice. I cleared my throat, stood up taller, and said, "Hey! I'm leaving. I quit."

A few people stopped typing, a few looked annoyed at the interruption, and one man spoke. "Okay. Be sure to leave your work badge on the desk."

A smile began to dance across my lips—the first one in a long time.

"Sure thing, Brad," I said a little too cheerfully as I put the badge down and skipped out the front door. I breathed deeply as I looked around the parking lot, taking in the scenery here for the last time. I audibly said goodbye to the flock of ravens roosting in the nearby trees. I'd miss them the most. One of them made a deep, croaking sound, and it validated me.

And with that, I departed the corporate hellscape. I didn’t have a choice. Leaving wasn’t simply an option, it was an act of liberation.

Fiercely free, aware, awake, alive.