I hate my job. I really, really hate it with a passion. I feel a sense of existential dread whenever I walk up those stairs. I feel the desire to just hide, rather than deal with anything related to it. If I wasn’t scared of getting dysentary, I’d eat under-cooked chicken just to legitimately take a few days off work.
I’ve lost my purpose & my passion for life. Temporarily at least.
Talk of salaries, promotions, mission, family, team, office, gin & tonic. All of it seems so vacuous.
I pray for the weekend & feel down on Sunday. That’s no way to live life.
9 weeks to go.
If morning felt like a kick in the teeth having to go into work, this afternoon was far worse.
I’m pretty sure I’ve hit my low point. Today was the final nail in the coffin; the little doubt left in me about sticking with it has been driven out.
I was a few seconds from crying today in the office. I’m also someone quite conscious of the fact that I’m not normally under-emotional. Therefore the fact that work – something so unimportant in life – brought me to that point is really quite telling.
I laugh at it now, but at 2pm this afternoon I felt physically sick: cold, shaking hands, near the point of vomiting. Purely from the prospect of having to work on a new project. That’s pretty fucked up, no?
It’s not like I sell crack cocaine to kids or anything. I just help build heating devices that no-one is ever going to use. It shouldn’t feel like the world is about to end when all I am obliged to do is design a few app screens.
Yet when you do something that fundamentally goes against everything you believe, your body & mind refuse it. It creates, at least in my case, a gut reaction; a rejection of what you are spending your time & energy doing.
Nothing is worth that feeling. The only benefit I see is that every moment of despair is fuelling me to get up earlier, to work harder, to think more deeply about my future.
Just 24 more work days until it’s done.