It’d be wrong to say that I hate my job.
Hate is a feeling reserved for bigger things, for racist tendencies, for ignorant bigots, for injustices. And even then it’s still not right.
I do not hate my job. But I do loathe it an awful lot.
I do not want to whine. I want to be able to endure. But it makes me so unhappy.
Silly girl, they say. Be grateful that you have a job, when so many unfortunate others do not.
But I despair of work, in a way that I have never despaired of anything. When I think about work, and not the kind of glance-off-the-surface, despairing-incidents-turned-funny-stories kind of thinking, but really thinking about work makes me really feel how (and here, there is no better word for it, though there are several well fitting ones) unhappy I am.
I will be the first to admit that I cry. A lot. Even sappy commercials can bring on the pinpricks behind your eye. But works makes me despair, and then cry, and then despair and cry, and that is a rather uncomfortable thing to have to reconcile into my personality.
Plus it’s annoying when you’re despairing and crying and feeling like a spineless fool on the phone, and then the slickness of your tears mutes and then freezes the damn phone and you must take a break in the wallowing to unfreeze it and call back the other party.
Or maybe that’s a good thing.