that was a short-lived job.

i was conflicted: the content of the job was not impossible to perform, nor was it particularly unobjectionable. (i knew my former coworkers from the CameraShop would comment that i was “better” than food service, but honestly, i don’t see it as beyond me. it’s work that has to be performed, and i do draw enjoyment from being successful in the service of others — that is, making customers happy. that, of course, is not inextricable from the gender roles under which i was raised. but anyway) — the people at Cafe were good people, as were the people in the store in general. and they would face genuine stress were i to quit, and i didn’t want to put them through that (the whole two days i’d known them). and we would face a genuinely difficult financial situation at home if i were no longer drawing pay.

but.

when i stopped and thought about me, purely me, i knew, deep down, i wasn’t going to stay.

when i was scrubbing tables and struggling with turning over a giant floor mat while mopping the eating area, i knew that this was not a job i could perform long-term.

when i was sneaking a bottle of water in the back of the food prep area and trying to time things so i could take my medication without being seen, i knew that this was a job i could not sustain long-term.

when i finally got to steal away for break and sit my tired ass down, and all the throbbing, stabbing, burning pain rushed to my attention, and i despaired that i was going to have to return to work in fifteen minutes when what i needed was a good five days without work to recover just from that pain that i already had, much less the pain i was going to be heaping on top shortly…

when i thought about the nine-and-a-half hour shift i was supposed to perform today, a shift that would have been long for me even at CS, i knew, just intuitively knew, that i couldn’t do it. i just couldn’t.

that intuition, that’s the thing, isn’t it? i remember back in school, from grade two to grade twelve, when i had no idea what the fuck was going on with my body, hell, had no idea anything was going on with my body… i remember just knowing, in that truest sense, in that way that you can question but you can never ignore… i just knew that i couldn’t go that day. i knew i would not be able to withstand my regular activities that day, whatever they were. and, though in  that space i occupied between my own perception and the world’s perception i was doubting myself and slurring myself as a faker, as exaggerating, as sinful and indulging in luxuries nobody else got to indulge in (like sleeping six hours atop the eleven i’d already slept that night, and waking up still  drained and empty), though that was all going on… when i stripped away all those outer considerations, when i was finally left alone, when i could finally stop worrying about everybody else and just think about me, just ME… i knew better.

and that’s the only way to describe it. i know better.

even when i didn’t understand what was wrong with me, what was making me feel this way, what those feelings even were, what my limitations were, what i was facing that i had to do, what i had to do to get by with that…

even when none of that was even something i knew existed — i still damn well knew better.

and years later… that’s how i feel right now.

and now that everyone else is gone, and i’m all alone, and i don’t have to think about anybody else, i know.

and i’m grateful. i can finally close my eyes, relax my tired muscles, and just do nothing.

i can finally appreciate the nothingness.

and how fucked up is that? i finally let go, and what is it i feel? not pleasure or joy. just relief that i can stop, and not keep adding to the pain.