You think I'd be happy. Happy that I have just under three months of pay coming in while I am obligated to do nothing. You'd think I'd be doing a jig of joy now that I never have to go back to my job of nine years, during at least five of which I was deeply unhappy.
Well. Not yet.
I'm actually not surprised that when I stumbled home on Friday I immediately collapsed into a howling, weeping mess, then proceeded to sleep on and off through random hours during the weekend. Up at 3:00 a.m., back to bed at 5:30, sleeping until 11:00, up until 2:30, napping, up again at night - you get the picture. And inbetween wobbling around with such an exhausted feeling of surreality. This eventually paired with a headache and backache, and all the while the urge to keep checking on the old company website. Just what the hell was going on?
Well, it turns out that although I perceive myself as a lazy, type-B personality who'd rather never have to work, the prospect of actually having a few weeks off revealed my inner type-A worrywart. After all, when you take a vacation, you know you'll mostly likely have your job at the end. In this case, not having gainful employment for the first time in, oh, 20-odd years has made me a tad... neurotic.
It might be different if the job at the vet clinic was certain. Even if it pays less than half of what I've been making - and it does - the idea has been that the job would be a step in the process of trying a new career that might be fulfilling. However, since nothing is yet set, I find myself not only worried about what's going to come next, but a bit panicked.
Isn't it a bit depressing when you realize you've bought into the system? Honestly, there's a part of me that doesn't feel worthy, doesn't know how to define or explain myself, unless I have a job. I find myself actually thinking "I'm a failure," or, "I don't know what I'm doing with my life! I'm thinking of getting into... male modelling."
Anyway, I'm doing a little better today, after an actual night's sleep and a day of enjoying Torchwood episodes and unlimited bowls of La Lechera cereal. Ah, La Lechera. Come to me with your sweet, creamy Latina goodness in sensible shoes. You make me feel... lecherous...**
Over the next week I'll be doing household chores, trying to get another meeting and volunteer shift at the clinic, and working on my freelance site. Or I'll be relaxing. Or I'll be thinking I should do all those things, but getting so tense about it that I succeed at none of them. Place your bets!
**Please don't kill me for the horrible pun; it's a genetic disorder.