Chapin City Blues

Writing is writing whether done for duty, profit, or fun.

Photo by Tim Gouw from Pexels

I’m thinking of quitting my job. And that scares me.

It scares me, because I have nothing planned out for the aftermath. There isn’t a plan b. For the last decade, my world has revolved around the library. It has become my identity.

I was Guillermo, the library aide. Guillermo, the library assistant. Guillermo, the cataloger. Guillermo, the second in command of the children’s department. Guillermo, the interim children’s supervisor. Guillermo, the senior library assistant.

Guillermo, the library/cultural arts assistant II.

Who am I if I am none of these things?

For years, I have been told that I spend more time at work than I do with my own family. 40 hours a week are dedicated to work. 40 hours of shelving books. Writing PR. Entertaining children that aren’t mine, but love just the same. 40 hours of singing and dancing, puppeteering. Performing. Of helping others. Suggesting books. 40 hours of festival planning. 40 hours of micromanaging.

All the while, my son has grown up in my peripheral. Or so it would seem.

I have these panic attacks. They’re small, insignificant. Moments where the fear sets in and I stop breathing. I stop breathing because I’m checking my pulse. I’m checking my pulse because it feels like I’m having a heart attack. And the more I concentrate on it, the more I begin to worry. The more panic sets in.

After years of lounging around after work, I took up walking again. I had hopes it would elevate my mood. Calm any anxieties that I carried. And it did.

I relocated the hidden beauties of the surrounding neighborhoods, and found new ones. I past the time listening to audiobooks while I study the leaves growing from bushes that survived the freeze.

It just doesn’t last long.

The worry sets in. The anxiety fills my mind. The panic rushes forward.

The dread of having to talk to my supervisor percolates. A pit forms in my stomach.

This isn’t how a grown adult should feel, and yet I do. Every. Single. Day.

This morning, I awoke to the strangest tweet I ever read. And that would have been the subject of today’s post had it not been for the sudden demand that I write PR for an event that is two days way. The policy of public relation pieces is two weeks before the event. And what made it worse for me was the demand that the piece be written ASAP.

Unless it’s journal writing – or blog writing – nothing I write is done in that sort of manner. This is why the two-week policy works well for me. It allows wiggle room for mistakes and corrections to be made. Instead, I’m writing a piece on an event that – as of last week – I knew next to nothing about. When addressing this issue during my monthly – yes, monthly – employee performance review, my supervisor dismissed it as something completely unrelated to my failure to meet a goal.

I finished the piece within four hours of it being assigned to me. I took lunch and, using the same letter head I used for piece, I typed out my letter of resignation. A letter I still have not turned in.

Because I’m scared. Not of what will happen when I do turn it in.

I’m afraid of what happens after.

One thought on ““Maybe I Am A Clown”

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