Wrong Occupation

The moments where words are building up in my head, my fingers, aching for release, are the worst moments of my day. They are the worst because they strike while I’m at work, doing menial accounting tasks, or fixing someone’s mistake, or unable to find a pen. The pressure of my thoughts is almost painful against my skull. These are the moments I begin to question my degree switch. Maybe English wasn’t such a mistake. Maybe the mistake was making my major something I’m good at that can make me money, instead of something that will feed my soul. I always push these thoughts away, justifying them with the rationale that “You hate what you’re doing because of where you are, not because you don’t like it.” This place is toxic. From the moment I mosey in at 9:00 (or 9:30…10:00…) I am overwhelmed by an ominous feeling. It’s not the typical anxious feeling I’m used to, its worse. The feeling is much worse than anything I’ve experienced. The moment my feet cross the threshold, and I enter “9-5” world, my soul feels heavier; my heart beats faster in my chest. My attitude changes from carefree to unbearably cross and I emit an aura as black as my coffee. The air is suffocating and the only reprieve I get is the measly half hour for lunch a day. I should be grateful. I know this. I should be rejoicing that I have a job. I should be thanking my stars that they’ve kept me employed through over fifteen staff changes. The notion that I should be happy doesn’t make it so. My fingers ache to type something other than a form letter; to be useful to the world, not just to serve glorified factory workers who have been given an iota of power. The ache is so apparent that I feel my heart pulse in my fingertips. I’m good at what I do. One of the best in the company (which isn’t really saying much, as I’m one of 6 people who aspired to amount to more than a high school diploma or a GED) but I’m good at other things too…riding a bike, singing, building forts, none of which I’m getting a degree in. I guess I need reassurance. I need to know that even though my life is consumed by accounting, and terrible business decisions at the hands of morons, I can still write; I still know grammar; I still love using semicolons; I am more than what this job makes me. There it is. That’s it! I am more than what this job makes me! My fingers now ache less, and my breathing is similar to other human beings, not erratic and staccato like before. I needed the reassurance that my brain still works, and the wealth of knowledge I’ve gained until this point isn’t lost, just filed away until I can put it to good use. I feel better.