Quitting When Poor

The goal is to die at my desk from disease of mind or body and be praised at my memorial service for exemplar dedication.

¹

E sent me a list of items to consider before making the decision to accept the buyout and leave employment, segueing to formal retirement. They were practical, budgetary considerations. She did so out of concern because I am poor. She did so also because she and her husband have carried me financially in large and small ways when I was both unemployed and underemployed. They were and remain endlessly generous, but their responsibilities are vast and I should not be one of them. I’m not their child or sibling. I’m no relation. I am their friend. I have no right to be a line item in their budget. I must erase the line. I owe them clarity. I owe them the truth.

In response to E’s practicality, I shared how I am and have been for the four years since diagnosed with amyloid. No one except my psychiatrist knows I take Xanax (sometimes two) daily. No one knows I cry at night, that I stay up past 1 AM waiting for exhaustion so not to face demons alone in the silent dark. No one knows terminal heart disease left me a shell, what I knew as self, turning to dust. The critical thinking necessary to serve a greater good has been depleted.

I’ve been on short term disability three times in four years because of a combination heart failure and bipolar disorder. I have been institutionalized in insane asylums five times over my lifetime due to job stress. Between physical illness and manic depression, losing my mind brings the worse terror, worse than knowing that heart disease is killing me. In the past six months I have known that terror three times.

I have not performed satisfactorily in my job for four years. When I told my supervisor that I was considering retiring in spring 2026, she was candid. She, too, is tired. We agreed heart disease has worn us both out. E was surprised at this revelation as we discuss so much of our lives. These things, however, I do not share. No one wants to hear job woes. It’s boring. I feel shame at not being able to master something as simple as clerical work. I feel shame at having been reduced from an executive to a clerical worker, from middle class to poor, to begin with. I find it pitiful. I used to listen to a friend repeatedly complain over sushi and saké about her role as administrative assistant. She called me her therapist. I dreamed that I could numb my ears by sucking on a martini rather than green tea to get through her stories. Today I told E every little piece of mine.

Recently my employer announced a Voluntary Separation Program - a buyout - offering a two week window to apply. I informed my human resources representative that I would apply. Financially it will be burdensome. While the buyout is generous for most, I have been an employee for less than 9 years. My portion will be small. It’s a paltry safety net for a year before social security payments are expected to begin. To live upright, I must live within scant means. I have known homelessness for not heeding this truth. I have learned my lesson.

Extravagant clothes, new books, showering twin babies with fun stuff, biweekly pedicures, subscriptions to literary journals and Substack newsletters, occasional front row seats at Kennedy Center, Saturday brunch at Le Diplomate restaurant, and purchasing original art, all to vanquish daily sorrow, will no longer be necessary. When there is relief in spirit there is no impulsiveness, no need for what is jokingly referred to as “retail therapy.” I tasted relief for two weeks at Porches Writing Retreat in January. Shoulders dropped, breathing steadied, sleep was sound, Xanax forgotten, writing unreserved, cooking joyful, conversations rich, awareness of nature astounding. This was peace. Returning home to two crying jags within the first three days of work, all exuberance shriveled.

I will never forget what my brother said to me upon returning home by city bus from stay at a mental institution filled to capacity with drug addicts. Watching television, his back to me, he said authoritatively, “There is nothing wrong with you. You just don’t want to work.” He never stopped watching his car chasing, shoot ‘em up. I made him dinner that night. It is the sentiment of most Americans toward the poor, mentally ill. We are expected to work ourselves to our graves else burden friends, family, community, and society because debilitation from a diseased mind is not legitimate. We are all simply lazy.

Someone suggested that my decision is irresponsible, that I should wait or find less strenuous work as if writing a resume, donning a black suit and suffering pointed toed pumps, peddling myself to rejections, and finally interviews selling work experience in which I no longer have faith, should be my next priority. Mental illness is not justification to step away from the grind any more than Hartford Insurance Company deemed a two and a half year death sentence reason to sanction long-term disability. The goal, I’ve learned, is to die at my desk from disease of mind or body and be praised at my memorial service for exemplar dedication.

I am grief stricken, threadbare, small and weary. Still, I must calculate pennies. E is correct. There can be no magical thinking. It is imperative that in cutting losses I am able to pay for stellar medical care, nutrient rich food, and a well maintained roof over my head. This is the challenge for those of us living paycheck to paycheck, no cushion for the inevitable emergency.

I have two weeks to change my mind about easing into retirement through the buyout. I have submitted the application. I doubt I will change my mind. E, in her compassion, does not want me to change my mind. “Don’t worry. We will work it out,” she said.

1. Argentinian musician, artist, and children’s book author Isol.