Letting Go

I quit my job yesterday.

I don't think I've ever said that in my entire life. I don't think I've ever quit anything. I've always toughed it out until the "natural" transition point occurred. Now that I write that, I cannot even conceive of what that means. Perhaps a self-indulgent attempt to make sticking it out somewhat easier. A reason to persevere. Or other nonsense.

I was overwhelmed. As someone who generally knows myself and my limits (or lack thereof) pretty well, I feel terribly ashamed by that fact. And that shame makes me embarrassed because I know I have nothing to be ashamed of. And so my self reflection circles round itself trying to find a place to lie down as if it were a puppy, too determined to find the right place to just rest.

On Monday, after three days with no more than four hours of sleep at a time, a wonderful celebration of Tiffany and Rob's love, three flights, six cabs, two trains, four buses, and three hours of work on campus, I collapsed into my chair in my classroom for my Counseling class. My professor walked in after I'd sat down and started rearranging furniture. Then it hit me: I had volunteered to go first in counseling a complete stranger in front of my peers as part of class. I told myself to calm down. I'm good at counseling. I understand people pretty well. I could do this. Then I reached down to grab my book and almost vomited. There was no way out. My peers were counting on me and I'm not the type to back down or disappoint.

The session was fine. Good, in fact. I messed up a couple of times (but, hey, who doesn't?). It was a great learning opportunity and I was able to reflect on my mistakes. I felt pretty good and was looking forward to the class break. But, it wasn't over. There was still time for a feedback session. Every thing I had noticed that had gone wrong, everyone (I mean everyone, including the client) reflected back to me. I generally can take criticism in stride, but I was at the end of my rope (a macabre, yet apt metaphor). I felt horrible. After what seemed like a year of being told just how I screwed up, we finally took a break. I went to the bathroom to breathe, compose myself, and, as it turned out, cry. If only that were the end of the story.

I walked back to class, knowing that everyone could tell I had been crying, but I figured that given social norms, no one would say anything. That's just not how my professor rolls. I sit down. She stops talking. She turns to me and asks, "Are you upset?" Well, thanks, Pat. Yes. Yes I am, I think to myself. Out loud, "Yes." The tears start rolling down my face and utterly aware of my own ridiculousness I say, "It's just hard to hear the criticisms others have of me when I already have those criticisms of myself. And, honestly, I think I'm only crying because I am so so exhausted." Everyone rallied back with support, "Oh no, Sierra, you rock." "I wish I could do that like you." "Just be yourself. Stop trying to imitate the textbook." Of course, being told that what you're feeling is ridiculous always helps. Someone finally changed the subject (thank the merciful god/s). I felt horrible the rest of class. I wished I hadn't said anything. I wished I'd slept. I wished I were somewhere else. After class, one of my colleagues looked at me and said, "It's impossible to keep going when you're so spent," and offered me a hug.

As you know from reading my blog (which I know you all do religiously...if only I would maintain some kind of regularity), I was sick two days later. In my bed, miserable, I thought to myself, I just can't keep doing this. I can't do it all. I later realized that was the moment when I decided to quit working at the coffee shop.

Friday morning, when I peeled myself out of bed, still sick, still tired at 5:30 am after having spent two days with guests in my home, I made the decision to quit. Working twenty-four hours a week suddenly seemed to me unreasonable. I was losing my grip and couldn't afford the devastation that was sure to come (as if being physically ill and crying in class weren't devastation enough...).

At 3:15 p.m. yesterday, I sat down with my boss and expressed my concerns. She was amazing. She spoke to all the hard parts of leaving that place for me in such a generous, thoughtful way that I am still awe struck. There is still the matter of my last shift to be figured out, but other than that, my time at the coffee shop has come to an end.

Ace and I went on a little stroll today. We walked further and longer than we usually have time for and while we were out, I realized how wonderful it is to feel like I have time. Twelve to fifteen hours is a lot of time to not have in a week. Hard as it is to quit something that I feel hadn't reached its "natural" point of conclusion, I know that I've made the right decision.

And as for all my self criticism and reflection, this will be a process I go through for the rest of my life. I will always reflect on my thoughts, actions, and ways of being. Sometimes it is exhausting. Sometimes it is exhilarating. But, for the most part, it's just me.