Nothing was easy about the decision. Choices of such magnitude rarely are. For a very long time, I felt under appreciated and overworked. Certainly, my condition was not unique.
I’d grown embarrassed in my situation, though. Pride in my work was absent. So was the sense of accomplishment at day’s end. Nothing was ever enough for the puppet masters who delighted in micromanaging my daily dance.
The conclusion of too many at-work conversations was, ‘man, what are you doing here?’ There was no easy answer. I ended up doing what I did and allowed it to become what I was. For a time, it was a satisfying diversion. The compensation was good enough to dream of a comfortable life in my later years while providing for my family’s immediate needs.
It never stopped mattering to me. I always sought to do my best. My achievements went unrecognized, but it did not matter much. I was compensated for what I did and it always allowed me time alone to pursue my dreams and diversions.
Since my family was mature, the kids moved out, my married life over, my dreams became my truest ambitions.
Then, my job encroached more routinely upon private time. Although I couldn’t afford it, I could not do otherwise but what I did. The compensation for my work was never increased. Only the demands and expectations of my time grew, ever insisting I do more and stay later if necessary.
For the sake of my sanity and sense of balance, I resigned. Since that decision, I have struggled in many ways, but in others I have succeeded. Jobless, I have reached a higher level of creativity than I could have otherwise achieved.
My new career is writing. So, I’ll write, until I exhaust whatever I needed to say.