The Worst First

One week ago today I pulled out of that parking lot deeply saddened. The sun hid behind the clouds and provided a calming breeze, allowing the wind to dance perfectly through my hair; but the grief that followed counteracted the beauty and focused on the clouds. I took one final lap around the building that was my comfort place, trying not to feel sorry for myself, but allowing myself to sorrowfully feel the unexpected loss.

I shamed myself for not making it a year. I've always kept track of my employment month by month, and when I would arrive at month 11, I stop counting and round my time with a company to one year, because at that point I consider myself accomplished. I passed the imaginary line and arrived at the destination, the destination of safety, control and comfort.

I always had an immense, uncontainable fear that I would one day be let go from a job. Although I always tried my best, read the handbooks and made sure to never do anything that could be deemed as fireable, the fear would not go away. Regardless of how irrational it seemed, it stuck to the back of my throat like a drought in the middle of the night. 

Weeks before I was released from my job, I was asked the question : "What is your biggest fear?" I curled the ends of my hair around my fingers, pretending that I did not have an immediate answer.

 ”Umm” escaped my mouth, but there was no uncertainty, I knew that my biggest fear was being fired.

I hesitated punching in the code to my job. It felt like delaying it would wipe away everything that happened. If I did not go inside, then perhaps the Global Pandemic was not really happening. But it was, and I was let go from my job at 11 months and 11 days in. I did not make it to a year, no matter how badly I wanted to.

Prior to receiving the call that my position was being eliminated, I hated the word 'unfair.' It made me think of a phrase that was inapplicable to all, because life digests us equally, without discrimination; but now, I couldn't pause the endless shuffling in my mind of that word. It all felt so incredibly unfair, no matter how much I detested that word.

Encouragement kept disguising itself behind the words 'at least.' “At least you're married. At least you can file for unemployment. At least there are recruiters", but there were no 'at least's' in this situation. It sucked, and there was no poised way to say that.

As accepting as I wanted to be, I was filled with raging jealousy towards all the people who got to keep their jobs, followed by the first four stages of grief; Denial, Anger, Bargaining and Depression. They simultaneously took first place in my heart, but I questioned if they were valid. Was I overreacting? Was I behaving in a privileged manner? I never imagined anything other than death could feel like grieving, but I've since learned that grieving doesn't have to involve death at all, it only requires a loss. 

I finally mustered up courage, and I punched in the code for my office, one final time. Due to new regulations, only five people were allowed in an enclosed area at what time. Upon my arrival I was greeted by two colleagues dropping of their equipment as well, and two to assist us in doing so. I sliced the thick silence with “I know this is so awkward for you both.”

This eased the tension and allowed the five of us to converse as we would on a normal day, but this made leaving harder. I continuously found reasons to procrastinate and delay leaving the office. I tripled checked my desk, and debated taking things I knew I would never need again.

I reflected on an earlier time when a colleague approached my desk and said “Wow, you have a lot of crap back here. It’s like a house.” I laughed it off at that moment, but now saudade swallowed me whole, and my time there seemed to drift into a figment of my imagination. I walked around and visited my colleague's work areas, imagining the good times. In my wildest fantasies my boss would burst through the door and beg me to stay, but in reality, I had to leave quickly before the next round of people came in and precautionary measures for the pandemic were broken.

I awkwardly struggled to open the door while holding the large box that held my belongings. I felt empty. I wanted more. I wanted a bigger send off, and I wanted this departure to me on my terms.

Immediately before the door closed behind me, my friend who was still employed spoke out loudly, "Thanks for everything", and although I couldn’t recall a single time I assisted him, it provided the strength I needed in that moment.

I placed the box on the trunk of my car and tried to ground myself as I learned in therapy. In a first session, my therapist asked me to list three major things I wanted to enhance about myself. All of my answers revolved around the ability to accept change, to release control, and move with grace during the process. 

Prior to therapy, change, and being out of control triggered me. It was more than a disdain for it, it drove me to panic attacks and awakened the demons of PTSD that I suffered from. Now I was confronted with the option to let this destroy me, or to accept that there is a first time for everything, even the bad things. This experience ameliorated the unfortunate circumstances and brought to light the false belief that I thrived when I was in control. I realized that I could skip the 11th month and 11th day and jump straight to the year all I wanted, but the twelfth day could always not happen, and I had to learn to function with that chance.

The human in me is still grieving the loss of what would have been, had the unexpected not happened. I am interposed between the sudden ties of friendship, the potential of that career, and moving on. I will always wish that life could have everything mapped out. I wish road bumps and detours weren't allowed, but they are. 

First times will always be uncomfortable, but now my greatest fear has been moved to the back burner, because this one? I am conquering.