I never thought I would be the kind to tell my job to take a walk. After all, I’m the one with legs. It was somewhat on an impulse, and somewhat part of a plan I had written out repeatedly the past two weeks. I don’t believe I’ve ever discussed my job on the blog, and I don’t believe I’ve ever discussed my illnesses here. I’ve been attempting to channel negativity into stanzas and blocks of a thousand words or so, and I’ve done this since late 2014.
My ways of thinking are rigid, and some may deem them perverse. I didn’t think that aside from dry research papers, briefs, and informational pamphlets, I was capable of writing a poem, story, confessional essay, or anything close to a book. My original landing page began with something along the lines of wanting to run for miles, and wanting to write a novel. Absurdly, I thought that as I didn’t study English in college, and was just then acquainting myself with Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, Charles Bukowski, Frank O’Hara, Bell Hooks, and others, I didn’t have a right to try. Yet I blogged as a way to cope with my issues and finally received a comment in reference to “I want to write a novel.”
Then do it. You already know you can.
The more I wrote, the more I realized how mean I was to myself, how achingly guilty I felt for no logical reason, how I held myself back. Years before, I was the one who preached about agency. It wasn’t long before glass shattered from shaky hands. I used to plan and couldn’t improvise for my life. Now, it seems that everything is an accident, and I’ve recently gotten better at adapting and acknowledging that sometimes, what you plan happens later than you’d like. It may not happen at all. Its never being birthed may not even be by fault.
For now, I want to write and submit. There is time for me to work out what’s to happen in the longterm. Leaving the 8am to 5pm is not the end of the world (really, I cherished that aspect of it, in spite of other things), and I’ve come to realize that staying at a job you were only pretending you were made for is not worth the damage the environment inflicts on your health. Walking away is fine. It does not make you weak. Neither does mental illness. I will confess for a time, I’ve grappled with whether mental illness is real, or just some sort of prolonged teen angst. For me, I have to see something to believe it. And after learning I have a physical illness that others can’t really see, though the sharp chest pains intensified to where the job wasn’t doable, I admitted I was pretending. Pretending to be infallible, pretending to be happy, pretending to be fine.
I’ve decided to attempt to write full time. I think that I can do it. I’ve also decided to focus on refining and submitting my work to literary journals and magazines. Crumpled Paper Cranes will stay, though its focus will shift to reviews of works by indie authors. There will also be a new section titled “Diary.” If some of my past entries disappear, it’s probably because I’ve decided to add more material and make some corrections. Most of the bits under “Flash Writing” will probably expand into larger pieces. I will remain in the Blogosphere, but as a more active reader.
Quitting doesn’t have to be bad. It’s just something I never thought I’d bring myself to do.