The sudden end of my relationship has left me confused. As I’m now romantically unemployed, I’m wondering what I need to change in order to keep my job in the future.
I’ve recently become romantically unemployed. It happened rather quickly. There was a snap meeting on Friday afternoon, and I was informed that I would be no longer required. The company I kept would be heading in a new direction. So it went with my romantic co-workers, who expressed shock and disbelief that I wouldn’t be here on Monday. The break room painted with vague promises of not losing touch. Miss them I will, as I was under the assumption that I would be working here until mortal retirement.
The extremely adult logistics that followed pulled my attention from the issue. There was the matter of relocation, informing the dull headsetted voices that the gas would still be required to warm the house I left, and telling my nan that I’d be living in her basement until further notice.
But as I type this with the contents of my suitcase exploded at my feet, I now have time to think about the simpering whimper that bassooned the crescendo of my relationship. Frankly, I’m confused. I’m entirely not sure what, or how much of me needs to change.
As the end of a relationship pours jagged shards of emotional detritus on the floor, we often ferry our soon-to-be ex over the pointier bits. Save for a massive betrayal of trust, or flesh, you attempt to shield the other party as much as possible. It makes sense. You still love (or at least care) for that person. Normally, this comes in the form of earnest compliments. The fact that I might be wonderful, or indeed a ‘good catch’ may indeed be true (or false), but it doesn’t really help me moving forward.
I now have time to think about the simpering whimper that bassooned the crescendo of my relationship. Frankly, I’m confused. I’m entirely not sure what, or how much of me needs to change.
Self-discovery is an important part of the healing process, but the toll road to that point sees you navigating the icy bends of alcoholism and impulsive dalliances. You do your best to try to forget with the fury of action, until you catch your gaze in unfamiliar bathrooms painted by 3am fluorescent realities, which brings feelings of hating yourself, or them, or both. Pretty standard. As are the spectacular leaps of logic you vault, attempting to piece together the reasons why, flaying yourself with anecdotal memory, focusing on the minute, wondering if that time you chose work over that mid-week pub drinking session was the first crack that would eventually disintegrate the mirror.
The problem is that the brain is an unreliable narrator. Your own flaws are hard to see. You’re unsure if the things you did, said, or felt were merely the cause and effect of the situation you found yourself in, or if they represent a larger issue. Knowing which weed to pull is vexing. How do we know what germinated in the previous relationship will bloom into a twisting creeping vine that will immobilise the growth of future gardens? Maybe none. Maybe all. Maybe you should salt the earth so nothing grows ever again.
What I feel we need in this instance is constructive feedback from a party that has endured the worst of you. Hence the title of this piece. What we need is a powwow with management. We need to accept that the contract we signed has been shredded. We should participate in that discussion earnestly, even if we’re hurt, as it will greatly benefit our chances of getting another job, and in turn, the other party finding a suitable candidate to fill your old position.