Elizabeth does not want to live in a box.
I’ve been lucky enough to live and work in a small town where, even at its worst, rush hour is hardly ever more than a twenty-minute inconvenience. On the rare and unavoidable occasions when I am forced into the city and subjected to the true horror that is rush hour traffic, I’ve been known to say, “I’d rather live in a cardboard box than have to do this every day.” Well, life of late has thrown me a curve ball, or ten, and certain choices I’ve made combined with circumstances beyond my control have me ever so slightly panicked and wondering if I should be scouting the dumpsters at the local appliance store for a proper box.
For starters, I quit my job a few weeks ago. A respectable job with benefits that had me financially comfortable for the first time in my life. A job that required a whopping 11-minute commute. A job I was immensely grateful for, but for reasons I’ll get to later, was sucking the life out of me.
This rather rash move coincided with a particularly agonizing bout of back pain that made it impossible for me to work even if I hadn’t left. Since I was a teenager I’ve suffered from back pain of one kind or another. For most of my adult life it tended to manifest in my middle back; in the last three years, however, it has taken up residence in my lower back. I’ve now had two particularly excruciating and humbling episodes of such pain. The first called for two rounds of prednisone, an intensely evil kind of hell I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, an MRI that fortunately generated nothing requiring surgery, but also failed to pinpoint any particular cause of the pain, and then finally two months of physical therapy that mercifully carried me through until about a month ago. Daily pain is a sobering kind of thing, something that flat out forces you not to take pain free days for granted. But in the absence of that agony, it is all too easy to slip back into old routines. Before you know it, stretching has fallen by the wayside, core strength slowly deteriorates, and those $30 shoe insoles gather dust in the closet. And then smack. Life comes and slaps you in the face and knocks you on your ass, which is where I found myself a few weeks ago, a not so gentle reminder that I am no longer twenty and invincible.
And if that wasn’t enough, this all came on the heels of the heartbreaking realization that I’ve made a complete mess of my personal life over the last year and have found myself alone, once again, wondering if I’ll ever feel worthy enough to attract, and keep, a decent partner.
Stuck at home, alone, and unemployed, I’ve had nothing but time to contemplate where I am in life, how I got here, and where I might want to go. I’ve been through half a dozen boxes of Kleenex, and damn near a case of wine. My journal is filled with daily reflections, and although all the birds outside are likely relieved, my cat has gotten way too comfortable curled up in my lap during the day. I’ve spent many an hour on the floor, sometimes stretching, sometimes crying. A few days ago, during a particularly ugly cry, in between stretches and sobs, I heard these words in my head, “This is a test. This is a test of Elizabeth Becker’s emergency response system.” Haha. Ok, world, you want to know what I’m made of, huh? Well, so do I. It’s time to get to the bottom of this. Good thing I’ve still got plenty of wine.
Throughout my life I’ve quit a lot of things. I quit school. Twice. I left my marriage. I abandoned guitar lessons. Recently I cast-off a (seemingly) good man. And now I quit a decent job. I can’t help but wonder, do I simply not have what it takes to finish something? Am I just wired to run when the going gets tough? Do I not have any fight in me, any perseverance? Am I a quitter?
The first time I quit school I had just experienced my first full on identity crisis. I found myself at a huge university half way across the country studying genetic engineering more or less because I was good in science and I had an abusive ex boyfriend that I needed to be far, far away from. A year into it I’d fallen into a deep depression and spent the majority of my days in tears on the couch getting entirely too familiar with the cast of Days of Our Lives. Quitting school felt absolutely foolish, but staying was unbearable. My body shut down and I had to listen. Six months later that decision led me to Peru, which led me to Goddard College, which led me to a study abroad trip around the world, which solidified my desire to farm. It’s impossible to not see the life changing effects of that choice. My world was split open and forever changed. Positively for the better.
Since then I’ve learned to recognize the discomfort, that feeling in the pit of my stomach that something is off. Occasionally I’ve tried to numb it. Zoloft bought me two more years of marriage. My body and soul knew I had to leave, but the timing wasn’t right and I shoved those signals under the rug until they could no longer be ignored. Leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. The guilt I felt for deserting a good man was crushing. The remorse I felt for subjecting my boys to separate households was tremendous. But staying was suffocating. And numbing it away was no longer an option. I had no idea what hurdles lay ahead; nevertheless I plunged forward into the unknown. The path has by no means been clear and without obstacles, but I have no doubt I made the right choice.
As for quitting guitar, I have no good excuse, other than the fact that it was damn hard and seeing how naturally my youngest son picked it up was enough to convince me of the old dog/new tricks saying. However, knowing that Eliza Gilkyson didn’t start playing until she was fifty allows me to cut myself a little slack. I’ve still got a few more years to go.
That good man I let go, our relationship—complicated though it was—may very well have been the most pure expression of love I’ve ever experienced. He undoubtedly and undeniably didn’t make it easy, being the self-proclaimed loner, bad boy, rambling man that he was. But he was a veritable enigma and my self-esteem was too fragile to handle the beautiful paradox of what he had to offer. Eventually my anxieties and insecurities took hold and I sabotaged the whole thing. I thought my gut and heart were telling me to run. Turns out I was too clouded to hear my heart, and what I heard instead was fear. And there’s the catch to this whole trust-your-gut thing: learning to decipher which “voice” to listen to. I listened to the wrong one and I lost. Update: Turns out he was a narcissistic disaster who mind-fucked me into believing I was the problem. Sadly that destructive, vicious cycle would continue for another four years, further deteriorating my self-esteem. As much as it pains me to read how I felt about the situation (and him) at the time, and as tempting as it is to edit it all out, it’s a stark reminder to not get sucked into that kind of poisonous relationship again.
So, back to this great job I walked away from. Before I left I made a list of pros and cons. It looked a bit like this:
Pros:
- the paycheck
- health, dental, and vision insurance
- stability
- top notch work space
Cons:
- work climate of fear, suspicion, efficiency at all costs
- extra responsibility/pressure as manager
- no interest in climbing the corporate ladder
- job became less about design and more about management
- controlling boss
- inflexible schedule
Easy to understand the pros. Who would want to give that up? But add in the cons and that paycheck was not so pretty anymore. I was hired as a designer, and although I was flattered when they quickly promoted me to management, I failed to see how climbing that ladder would ultimately take me farther and farther away from the creative side of the job and instead, deeper into the world of time management, production, staff training, and paperwork, all with promotion as the end goal. Maybe this would have all been peachy if the environment had been supportive. Unfortunately it was anything but that. In fact one day my boss flat out informed me, “This job isn’t about feelings.” I begged to differ, but that didn’t seem to matter.
Sure enough, I felt those tell tale signs again that I was way off track. Depression set in. I tried to convince myself to stay. Stick with it. Save money. Be responsible. Then the back pain started. So fast and so severe that I couldn’t work if I’d wanted to. My body flat out said, nope. Stop. Take stock. Regroup. And then to make matters worse, the same week my boss presented me with a 30-day Personal Improvement Plan (PIP), aka probation. Up until then, I simply wasn’t happy with the job. I had no clue she might not have been happy with me. I can’t help but wonder if this wasn’t the universe testing my ego. Because yeah, that hurt my pride. Doesn’t matter that I could refute all the accusations. Here she was telling me I hadn’t been good enough. Nevertheless, I swallowed my pride, put my big girl panties on, and made one final attempt to salvage the situation. I called a meeting with my boss, her boss, and HR. I described the issues I was having and disputed the claims spelled out in the PIP. My concerns fell on deaf ears and we found ourselves at a stalemate. I was faced with a choice between suck it up and play their game, or give it up and roll the dice.
I went home and slept on it. It dawned on me I was having a hard time admitting to myself that I just wanted to be a designer. That there was no shame in not wanting to be a manager. Yes, I could have played ball and risen to the next rung on the ladder. But to what end? Yes, there would be more money in the bank. And sure, I would prove that I could stick with something when the going got tough. Although at what cost? I thought long and hard about the emotions I was feeling and where they were coming from. Ultimately I decided my well-being was at stake, not to mention my sense of right and wrong. Staying flat out felt like selling my soul. My decision to quit was an act of self-love. So I thanked them for the opportunity and informed them this job was no longer for me. Bye-bye pretty paycheck.
I have a friend who works for the same company, although in a different department. When I told her I quit she hinted at her own dissatisfaction but stated that she had to stay until her daughter was out of college. This conversation has rolled around in my head for a good two weeks now. I’m fortunate that the boys’ generous grandmother plans on paying for their college so I don’t have that on my plate. But I’ve certainly got bills and responsibilities other than that. Now I have no idea if my friend is as miserable in her department as I was, but regardless she has chosen to stay in a job she is not happy with because it is necessary to get her daughter through college. One might say she chose the responsible option. I left the job without a solid Plan B, knowing money was most definitely going to be tight. Does that make my choice irresponsible? Confused and frustrated, I was left asking myself, do I just not have what it takes to stick with it?
Maybe it boils down to individual goals. Her goal is to get her daughter through college. My goal right now is to simplify. Six months ago I sold damn near everything and bought a 5th wheel travel trailer to live in. I’d moved every year for the last four years and couldn’t face finding another place to rent, not to mention the exorbitant rental prices around here. Sure, I was making enough money to afford rent and the basic necessities, but there would be nothing left over. My youngest son has three years of high school left. By the time he’s done I want to be in a position to pick up and move. Living in an RV allows me to save money and ultimately gives me the flexibility to move my home wherever I please. Mind you, at the time I made this radical decision, I was still counting on the aforementioned nice paycheck and had planned to keep getting it for another three years. I hadn’t counted on the job becoming intolerable. Could it be that I am still so naïve and idealistic to think that I should enjoy, or at least not hate, my job? And if so, is there anything truly wrong with that?
My mother was a painter, and during the time she lived in the islands she started painting signs on driftwood. When she moved back to Texas she painted some for me to sell at my nursery. My favorite was “Unattended Children Will Be Composted,” but another one that spoke to me was, “Leap, the Net Will Appear.” I’ve made several leaps in my lifetime, and not all involved quitting. On the contrary, I’ve created at least as much as I’ve quit. With the help of my husband at the time I started an organic farm and then later a landscaping business. I started my own plant nursery from the ground up and ran it for six years. And then with zero professional training I stuck my neck out and became a floral designer. It’s easy to see all of these moves as courageous. Just as easy as it is to see the times I’ve quit as reckless. But could those decisions be considered courageous as well? Is it a matter of faith? Ask any particularly religious person and they will chalk it up to faith in God. Not being a huge fan of organized religion this has never sat too well with me, but I have to admit to a certain faith in the way of the world. Maybe because I’ve led a life of privilege and never truly known hunger or fear or poverty, but for the most part I’ve always trusted that things will work out, that the net will eventually appear.
Consequently I’ve never been terribly afraid of the leap. That said, I can’t say I’ve ever been particularly prepared for the fall. Where is the line between trusting your gut that things will work out and being prepared when they don’t? I guess balance is ultimately the key. Finding that sweet spot between recklessness and courageousness, ignorance and arrogance, blind faith and uber-preparedness. Prior to my most recent leap, a friend advised me to have ten months of savings before I jumped. I had two. I was somewhat nervous that I might not be able to find work, or enough of it, but confident that living in the “Wedding Capital of Texas” was certainly to my advantage as a freelance floral designer. As it turned out, design jobs started falling into my lap. What I didn’t count on was the possibility that I might not be able to work. On my first day of work as a freelancer I made it a total of 4.5 hours before my back pain was so extreme I had to throw in the towel. I lasted a whopping 2.5 hours the next day. Cue panic attack.
And that’s when I remembered my comment about the cardboard box. Mind you, the issue at hand isn’t whether I will have to drive to the city for work, but rather, will I be able to work at all? I have a little cushion, but it’s not hard to see how fast that could deflate and I would be forced to move out of my serene little spot here in the RV Park, or worse, sell my 5th wheel, my home. I know I won’t end up homeless; I’m lucky to have plenty of family and friends who’d offer me a room in a heartbeat. So most likely I won’t need that box, but I sure as shit don’t want it to even come close to that. Unemployed, alone, unable to work, with doctor bills adding up, my decision to quit was beginning to feel way more reckless than courageous. This leap was starting to feel like a free-fall and the net was nowhere in sight.
But I can’t possibly count the times I’ve been told to follow my heart and trust my intuition. Isn’t that what I’ve been doing? Over time I’ve learned to recognize when I’m off course and then refocus. Listening to my body, learning to decipher fear from truth, and heeding those signs has served me well. I know I can go online and find countless inspirational quotes about trusting your gut, following your dreams, living each day as if it were your last, the quest for happiness, etc. Libraries are crammed with books and articles about people and their regrets in life as they get old, and I’d bet money that no one ever said, “I wish I’d stayed in that job I hated.” Hell, even my tea bags are chock-full of wisdom, “The purpose of life is to know yourself, and love yourself, and trust yourself, and be yourself.” Surely this isn’t all just feel-good horseshit…
A few days ago my back pain took a curious turn. Signs and symptoms began to point to problems with my kidneys and potential kidney stones. My doctor ordered a CT scan. Unfortunately my health insurance ended a week ago and COBRA hasn’t kicked in yet. In lieu of insurance I was looking at a $774 procedure, if I paid cash up front. Out of work already for three weeks, and unsure when I could work again, that was not a particularly easy decision to make. But what choice did I have? I needed answers and I needed relief. So I booked the appointment. Last night I transferred precious funds from my savings account into my checking to cover the cost. As I was getting ready to leave for the lab this morning I took one last anxious look at my bank balances. Initially the numbers didn’t make sense, but soon I realized what I was seeing. My tax return had deposited over night. With a huge sigh of relief I drove to the city, shelled out the money, and got some outlandishly expensive pictures of my plumbing. I won’t know the results until tomorrow, so who knows what surprises are in store. But I just received my mail and in it was an unexpected check. Granted, it was only for $16.75, but I gotta say it felt like a sign. Between that and the overnight deposit I think I see the net. It appears to be hanging just above that cardboard box, but I’ll take it.