Control
I press send on the email RE: Resignation. There’s a brief feeling of elation followed by a burst of equally consuming panic which sends fear exploding into every crevice of my brain. What the fuck did I just do? I spend the evening, and the evenings to follow, pondering this question from the bottom of a deep hole of uncertainty, wondering if I should sell heroin or become a cam girl. (Being a bit of an awkward and reluctant nude, I’m thinking the former). I equate the feeling to breaking up with a partner you know doesn’t truly appreciate or deserve you, and while they aren’t the worst person in the world, the sight of their head on the pillow next to yours each morning fills you with an unshakeable anxiety that only comes from knowing that you can do better. Even though you know deep down leaving was the right move, you spend the next few months swiping left and wondering if you should have just stayed with the person who was safe, even if they did make you feel that you were drowning in a warm and familiar bath. The feeling of losing control of any important aspect of your life is like the plug being wrenched out and being left naked and cold in the bottom of the tub, wondering whether you should use your wash cloth to cover your boobs or vagina.
Control has always been of utmost importance to me. I need to know what’s for dinner a week from Tuesday (turkey pasta bake), that people will be on time, my bills will be paid while the early-bird discount applies and my life will tick along in accordance with the colour coded schedule I have created for it. So quitting my job without a concrete plan is akin to me buying one of those surprise vacations on a grab a deal site at the last minute…I just fucking wouldn’t. Holidays need to be meticulously planned months in advance, they need itineraries and bookings and lists, with even ‘fun’ assigned a designated spot in the holiday schedule (I’m a good time). Equally, resignations should be organised with the precision of a military operation. New jobs should start in a timely manner and have been set in stone weeks before the official resignation takes place, new stationary (and lunchbox) having been purchased and personal budgets created in line with the new, (and obviously larger) salary.
The only spontaneity I’m OK with is a random max-out session, getting my nails done a colour I haven’t pre-decided upon (although I always regret this), sex in the afternoon, and snacks. I don’t do change well and I’m about as good at uncertainty as I am keeping my opinions to myself. I’ve honestly always seen the good side of this though, and felt that the high level of structure and routine that my life adheres to is something to be proud of. While there is merit here in terms of training and being on time for things, the bad side is of course that I’m a psycho. Getting off on lists and plans and structure and control is fine for holidays (if you want to enjoy your ‘fun’ alone), but what good is your strict timetable if you’re using it to construct a prison for yourself, even if it is colour coded and matches your lunch box.
If I really think about it, the times that I’ve felt the most control have been the times I have really been controlled by my own and other’s psychotic rules and routines…habits and apps and trackers and procedures and policies…thinking that if I stick within the confines of pre-determined KPI’s and bullshit then everything will be fine. Fine is shit though. Fine is comfortable and average and nodding and smiling when you really want to tell someone to stick their micro managing BS up their ass. Fine is for staying in your lane, when really you can own the whole fucking highway if you actually try. I think I’ve realised that if I truly do want to achieve anything worthwhile, I need to say fuck it, come at me life. Come at me fear and uncertainty and potentially not being able to my bills before they add on the 10% extra. Time to get comfortable being uncomfortable, embrace the suck, courage over comfort and all those other deliciously insta-worthy slogans.
I think that true control comes from accepting that you have none, and being OK with it. Feeling uncomfortable and uncertain but knowing that you are free to choose, and that freedom is worth more than long service leave and holiday pay. Turns out that feeling free and terrified beats safe and trapped, and I’m not a bath person anyway, to be honest.
Fuck fine when you can be fabulous, basically. DM me if you would like some heroin, or the turkey pasta bake recipe.
