May 4, 2019 – The prelude to rock bottom.
I am in Derbyshire for work staying at a luxurious Holiday Inn Express for a meeting the next day. There is a cigarette burn on my bed side table and a cum stain on the dark blue sofa in the corner of my room. On my way out to dinner, I notice the police handing out a missing persons poster to reception. This is possibly the pinnacle of my amazing UK career to date.
May 25, 2019
After lots of moaning and three different bosses in 18 months, a type written pro/con list shared amongst my closest friends, I resigned over the phone with my latest boss, effective July 25, 2019, as per a very long UK notice period. She seems relieved to not have to deal with me.
May 26 – July 22, 2019
I am pretty close to being a leper in the work world. A friend who resigned shortly after me is my deputy leper. Emails stops, the work phone does not ring. I email my boss about this and that – radio silence. So I embrace the time and take it is a welcome transition period from working to non-working life. I book a three week trip home with the kids for August to re-group. I still have my laptop, the odd email and my car. I have purpose. I hide away in my office for hours. Mostly car shopping.
Tuesday, July 23, 2019
I have written a three page transition plan with all of my projects, links to files on a shared drive, and a handover list to the folks I have coordinated to take on my files. Before I hit send, I add the passive aggressive “read receipt” to the email, because non of these people are going to read it I know this. Because none of it really matters – the main driver for leaving.
Ping. To my surprise, a read receipt comes in straight away, from the boss.
I re-read it again. Did I read that right? Put my glasses on. Deleted without being read. Well this is turning out funnier than I expected, I think. But then my fingers take over the keyboard and lunge for “Reply”. Mad click clacking of the keyboard. Delete, delete, delete. Finally this response: Hi – did you really mean to delete my transition plan without reading it? I worked really hard on that. Jamie
To which she responded: I filed it into a special folder (read: the bin). I promise I am going to get to it later this week.
So there you have it. Exactly what I expected. I have wasted two years of life working on things that mean very little, to few people. Validation for a good decision. It is time to move on.
So I handed in all of my kit with no regrets and no tears, except for LadyBalls, who I will miss. The boss was not in on my last day but did send me a LinkedIn PM that afternoon, while I was two wines in, on a very sweaty train back to Winchester.
For the love of God. This woman did not answer any emails for months and then thanks me for my passion. My fingers hit the keyboard (again!) for a clever response. She was nice and professional, I will be nice and professional.
So I blocked her. The equivalent of not talking to somebody on the school ground in the digital age.
Wednesday, July 24, 2019
I got up at the crack of dawn to see my therapist to beat the heat of a 40 degree heat wave in the UK (because AC is luxury here, and yes, I have a therapist – if you do not have a therapist at my age you must have a very boring life). After that, I thought I would collect my thoughts at the nearest beach (where I am always happy).
Turns out, half of the blasted country had the same idea and I could not even get into the car park. I resort to lunch at an old seaside hotel, where when I asked for water, the waitress said it was is in a pitcher by the bar (for a £26 lunch!!). Nearly every family in the restaurant are driving me insane with their holiday chitter chatter so I drove home, past the beach and went to bed in complete and utter despair.
This is when mom chimes in with her epic words of wisdom.
August 21, 2019.
And she was right. On my three week trip home to “fill my cup” with my friends, mom, parties, moms gone mild 2019, summer BBQs…….my dear step-dad Garth died on Wednesday, August 21, 2019, after many years with Alzheimer’s. The basement. It all made my career fumbles seem rather trivial.
The first weeks home we did the death watch. Mom did the heavy lifting; she was an amazing advocate for him. This was my first experience watching someone die; it was rough and I found very little comfort in it. I can not get the image of his last few days out of my mind. He was thin, greying, weak but his body was working so hard at living.
When we get the call from the nursing home that he had died, I am so happy. Mom and I have tears of joy. No more suffering. Then, as the days pass I can not believe he is not here to go visit. I feel so god damn sad – for him, for mom, for all the things that weren’t. I drink a lot. I said good bye to Garth years ago before he forgot me so I am surprised that this sadness is so raw, all over again. I think mom feels similar. I thought after all of this, I would be more at peace.
I am trying to remember him as he is below, telling a yarn to another fisherman in Bay Du Vin, New Brunswick about nine years ago. That black bucket just emptied of lobsters for dinner.
Link to Garth’s Obituary, may he rest in peace:
http://obituaries.tj.news/book-of-memories/3956748/garth-williston/obituary.php
September 21, 2019
So now I am crawling out of the basement and having a looking around, thinking about what is next. Get a job. Write a book. Maybe a cookbook. Take a “sabbatical”. Embrace the expat wife life. Blog. Travel. Exercise. All very good options.
Unofficially we are on twelve month countdown of our time in the UK. Time will tell. I have not felt like writing at all (despite lots of encouragement from my friends – thank you!) and it was a struggle to get this online.
I have several half written pieces I am going to post soon, self-doubt strong on all of this, but nevertheless I will post them for what they are. I also started a creative writing class so perhaps that will provide a push. Although the first class one lady was sleeping and another writing with ink and quill, so I may only be writing more obituaries.
PS. Do not have a panic after reading and call social services on me. I am actually quite good, not having a total mid-life crises or shagging the gardener. I am writing this post from inside a petite apartment in Vieux Nice, France, listening to St Germain and the banging of dishes from the restaurants outside, and having a lovely, lovey time. I am about to go swim in the blue waters of the Côte d’Azure.
PPS. Thanks for all of the condolences last month. I read every one over and over and loved every message, they felt good.
