You knowingly abandon your passions when you accept a job offer.
You show up and do the work — not because you want to (unless you’re lucky enough to love your job), but because you have to.
You socialise, you cringe at Robert’s jokes, you even smile sometimes — but something inside you is dying.
From Monday to Friday, as the days you have left on Earth slip by, so does your health: both physical and mental.
In the staff room, you shelter in a quiet corner. No one is allowed there as you try to enjoy the thirty-minute break your master permits you.
But it’s just a small room where broken souls gather.
Your ears drown in the voices of depressed coworkers.
The conversation always circles around two things:
“How long until Friday?”
“How long until the next holiday?”
“How depressing…” you whisper.
A quick look outside makes you fancy walking out — but a quick glance at your bank account brings you back.
Feet firmly on the ground, you remind yourself: I need the money. The money is here. So am I.
Days become weeks. Weeks become months.
Your smile turns into bitterness.
Your eyes become a refuge for tears.
And one morning, you decide you’ve had enough.
“Financially, I’m broke if I leave. Mentally, I’m broke if I stay.”
And as any person with even minimal wisdom would realise —
your health weighs heavier on the scale of life.
I would rather be broke but happy, than rich but unhappy. So here I am, writing this blog post no one will read.
But if you do, hey!
May this type of brokenness never find you.
Written on June 27th, by a human (broke but happy).
