It’s a little bit funny to keep this thing around without writing in it, and then crawling back to it when the mood strikes, but also feeling like I have to apologise “for disappearing”, even though no one is reading blogs anymore, I don’t think.
(Side note: I’ve been thinking about my own little lack of updates on the one sort of social channel/medium I’ve stuck by since I was 14 (!) and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s a mix between Instagram releasing carousels — now featuring twenty photos — and the resurgence of Caroline Calloway-esque long-form navel-gazing in the captions. But I digress.)
ANYWAY. I quit my job.
If you recall, in one of the only posts I wrote in the last year and a half, I got a full-time, on-site job in Soho, which probably sounds like a pretty bog standard thing for an adult to be doing. However, it’s still wild to me that I was able to do that job — and do it well — in a city where I basically didn’t really know anyone in that industry. And, really, despite me feeling quite lucky and fortunate to have had the chance to work that job and meet all the fabulous people that worked there, it just didn’t work out for me in the end.
I found myself increasingly dreading going in to work every day, even though when I got there, things were more or less fine. Every job has its stressors and down times, right? Frankly, it was when I found myself making many, many jokes about having to take a Xanax that I had to take a step back and reevaluate whether that was the right place for me. Because, on the surface, it felt perfect. And, really, when I had disclosed my plans of handing in my notice to people close to me, a lot of them who hadn’t been privy to my near-daily breakdowns were surprised. I did make it seem like the perfect environment, with the perfect people, doing the perfect job. In many ways, it was all ideal, until I had to confront the possibility that maybe it wasn’t.
Not to dooce.com (RIP x) myself here, but I will say that there were a lot of aspects of the role that just didn’t align with my personal wellbeing. Like, if I had to take a Xanax in the middle of the workday just to make it through it, that’s probably not a great place to spend majority of my waking hours at. I was proud of myself for not having needed to take anti-anxiety medication for years, too, so this “regression” or whatever you want to call it was really alarming once I took a step back to really see it and acknowledge it.
So, yes, I quit my job. My last day was on the 8th of April, and they held leaving drinks for me on the 10th of April. Because, like I said, most of the people I worked with were amazing and have become friends forever. Do I have a plan? Not really.
Alongside this full-time job, I was doing some freelance projects (though not actively pursuing them) and going to my studio after my day shift (lol), if I could muster up the energy. Two days after I handed in my notice in February, I got an invitation for a solo exhibition back home. One could view that as a sign that I did the right thing, but also, I’ve been frantically applying for jobs for the last two weeks, and haven’t gotten a callback, so that could be seen as a sign that I majorly fucked up, too.
Do I even believe in signs? I think I only ever really do when it’s working in favour of what I want, so then that probably doesn’t count. I guess we can only really know if we’ve made the right decision or not, once we make it to the other side and it turns out better or worse. Maybe I’m measuring it all wrong, too. Because of course I’m anxious about making enough money to keep living in London, but also I’m no longer anxious about doing work I don’t love and doing a good job at that. Nor am I looking for validation or instruction or progression. I’ve got to dip into my savings in the meantime (thank you past Carina for squirrelling money away into an ISA), but also, I’ve got more time to paint, and think, and write on this website. A thing I’ve been meaning to do anyway but never got around to.
So, perhaps it is the right decision, even if it doesn’t make sense right now. Maybe I just need to find a hack to exclude myself from capitalism (but also, as if). For now, I’ve been doing things I’ve been meaning to, such as spending days in the studio and cooking good meals again. That’s maybe all I need right now.
And even if it didn’t quite work out at my last place of employment, I do have reminders of all the lovely people and times I spent there. Maybe that’s enough for now, too.