I am not leaving by choice, but by necessity. The knots in my stomach, the throbbing in my head, the sick feeling in my chest when you give me the side-eye for daring to leave at 6:30 pm. I must go, because of you.
Don’t make it personal, you always said. But this isn’t personal, because I am not human to you. I am a well-oiled machine, a complicated combination of skills, a sum of parts. I am the hands that make charts and powerpoints, a head with a moving mouth that spouts the figures you need and makes the presentations you don’t want to make, a pair of legs that runs for taxis to go to airports to fly to meetings you couldn’t bother to attend.
Because I am a thing, I am replaceable.
You will not mourn me, and I will not mourn you. You are a building, a tax code, a profit margin. You are not my family. You are not my friend.
And you are not my future.
Very Sincerely,
Former Workaholic
