Three weeks. That’s how long it’s taken for me to feel comfy with my new situation. I sleep well: no more 2am panic attacks. The constant ‘get a job’ gremlin in my ear is silent. The tension in my body has gone and my days just aren’t long enough for all the things I’m now doing.
It’s worrying.
This isn’t a permanent situation. I know that. But the lack of tension is a welcome experience. If I focus entirely on getting a job will it return? It’s not like choosing a winter coat – go to the shop, try a few on and make a choice. Others have the advantage of making the choice; all I can do is pitch myself as a worthwhile candidate.
Change is a funny beast. We want it and yet when it happens we scream and kick against the opportunities that are on offer. I don’t regret walking away but it’s taken three weeks to stop hurting. I’m no longer angry, but I do run imaginary conversations with V and C through my mind. Conversations I will never have, so am I trying to justify what I did to myself? I don’t feel guilty or badly behaved particularly. I do feel misunderstood. But I don’t want to go back.
I like me at this moment. The first phase of my longed-for change is in progress, I suspect. Once we talked about a fresh start somewhere else, new home, new town and new careers but now we are asking if that will satisfy us. Are we, we ask, just looking for more meaning in our days? While we decide on the answers, I ought to find a way to pay the bills while holding onto my mellowness… not too much to ask, is it?
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