Jump

I've started a job search.

There's nothing wrong with the company that I work for. I've been promoted three times in three years, even received a very healthy bonus this year as appreciation for all my efforts.

There's been no shortage of recognition, awards, been tapped for special projects, my strengths invested in. Human resources would swoon in review of my corporate treatment. So far, this job has been nothing short of textbook "American Dream" for me.

So, the nagging question is, of course, "Why leave?"

The answer, as if you couldn't already guess, is management.

When I started my current career as a contractor, my role was performing menial data entry tasks for healthcare clients. My supervisor at the time knew our business, and she wielded that knowledge flawlessly when it came to making executive decisions.

In meetings both internal and external, she transformed herself, an enlightened presence in the room that bridged whatever gap was between her surroundings and the objective. People were putty in her hands, manipulated with a smile on their face. Her goals were achieved without fear or dabbling in ethical gray areas; she strategically placed pressure in a way that couldn't be construed as anything other than her doing her job, and I adored her for it.

I saw her as a leader, strong, nearly fearless. Dare I say, she inspired me.

The allure of her confidence prompted me to work harder, to distinguish myself from the rest of the pack. I isolated my colleagues and identified their strengths, not for the sake of collaboration, but to know what I was up against: where to be faster, where to be smarter, what to leverage to get what I wanted. And what I wanted was, naturally, to grow into a leadership role.

Fast forward three and a half years, and here I am. Exactly what I set my sights on. Most of my original team is gone. Of those who are left (two other than myself), one works for me and the other has siloed herself to where her career trajectory is not just stagnant but non-existent all together.

This isn't an ego trip. I don't get off on knowing that I clawed my way to the very thing I wanted with little to no resistance. If I'm honest, there is no pride in my story, just confusion.
An individual had enough influence on me to change my mindset. Yet, not even a third of a decade later, my professional desire has been killed by a different individual.

Loosened thoughts are pooling in the back of my mind, questions bubbling from their collection: Am I too pliable? Too affected? Maybe. Should I have a stronger resolve, more determination? Also, maybe. Will it always be like this...chasing whatever plight my heart has shifted to every few years? I hope not.

But the most prominent exchange: "Should I jump?" I am praying that soon I have an answer.

Turning Pages

Every year or so, I wipe the slate clean and start writing again.

I've come to realize that it's mostly a coping mechanism. Burying those old emotions has become easier than allowing myself to feel them again. There are a lot of walls founded in the text of my past, punctuation and mortar slathered on stone in an effort to shut out whatever hurt I felt.

There is no underlying trauma, no tragedy riddled with grief or guilt. There are no trigger words, no childhood abuse. Just a kid with a mental illness, keenly aware of his demons but so too scared and ill-equipped to confront them.

The sentiment about time and how it heals all wounds, while hopeful, is wrong. Some wounds are superficial at first; time packs it, cleans it, covers it in gauze. But life has a way of opening those back up, going just a little bit deeper the next time. There's no true closure because it's a cycle.

I think what the feel-good messaging tends to gloss over is that time can't heal something that's inherently broken. It can't heal something that's born wounded.


Something other than time has to intervene to heal a birth defect, simply waiting for relief is not the answer. No, I had to make a conscious decision. I had to place my palm on the mirror, studying each microscopic groove in my fingers as they met with their counterpart in the glass, an imperfect and symmetrical union.

I had to choose to let go of that image. I had to choose to cast off that shell, to claw my way out of the dark carcass that I had driven around for so many years.

That's why I choose to let go of those fragments cast off through the years. I shake them off, and I write because nothing, not even time, can heal a cycle.

You have to break it.

Exposed

Vulnerability is tricky.

The strangest part about opening up to someone is that we have no obligation to do so, but something propels us, nags at us until we do. We're social animals using communication and connection as a vehicle to self-validation.

We shout into each other and pray that the echo quells the loneliness inside; we risk the regret and the pain of rejection for a response that assures us that we are, in fact, just like everyone else.

But we forget so quickly, don't we? The waves of complacency and confidence break on the shore, a silent, erosive process to independence. Understanding the tides, the push and pull, we grow.

There are some still searching though, still throwing out lifelines. They're trying to leverage that vulnerability to find peace. They're taking on that risk that we no longer see the value in because our feet are so firmly planted, buried in the sand.

Don't let them sink.