My Shame: How My Anxiety Keeps Causing Me to Quit

by Daniel Gaughan

I feel shame when I think about what I did today.

I quit another job.

I am a thirty-year-old man (yes, as you might have guessed, I am a millennial) who lives at home with his mum and, again, I am unemployed.

This, unfortunately, is a recurring theme throughout my life. I waltz into a job because, somehow, the people who interview me must think I am employment material. I guess, over the years, I have become a good actor, somebody able to hide his internal conflicts.

This isn’t to say I take advantage of my employers’ good nature. No. Each time I attain a job, I tell myself that, this time around, things will be different, that, this time around, I will get my act together, and not mess the company about.

And, for the first few months, this is (mostly) true. I turn up. I work hard. I prove myself a valuable employee. But there is one thing I cannot overcome during my time there. In fact, those first few months are always the hardest in regards to this.

Aye. My old friend, anxiety, that consistent, insistent parasite which never stops draining my energy, takes control of my thoughts and, it is within this environment—a new social environment—where he thrives the most.

Every innocuous-appearing interaction with my colleagues becomes a monumental challenge. I cannot focus on what they are saying because my mind is racing. I sweat. My heart pounds. I overanalyse every facial expression wondering if they think I’m strange. And it is because of this that I probably do come across as strange. I respond without thinking, verbal diarrhea spews out of my mouth.

Then, when each shift has thankfully finished, I leave work, go home, and overthink every one of those dreadful interactions.

Often, this has resulted in me drinking or using drugs to ease the pain, to block those thoughts out but for a moment, until the next day when the hangover arrives and my anxiety amplifies. This vicious cycle then starts to consume my life. My sleep suffers. My home life suffers. My productivity suffers. My mental and physical health declines.

Each morning when I wake up for a shift, I dread going into work. Eventually, this culminates in me missing shifts here and there. I have found myself telling lie after lie just to skip work. Lies which nobody else would even think of, because, in my mind, the more extravagant the lie, the less it will be questioned.

Every Tom, Dick, and Harry has said to their boss that they’ve got the shits to miss a shift, but nobody in the history of false absences has ever feigned an eye infection produced by a scratched cornea, then, when they’ve returned to work, worn an eye patch to validate the lie. I have. And I am not proud of this but, let’s face it, it was either that or walk the plank.

And yes, I know, society deems such behaviour reprehensible. We are taught a hard work ethic is valued above all else. I promise you I am not work shy, it is just I cannot function around other people, which makes life rather hard.

Of course, all this absence and deceit cannot last forever. There comes a point in my employment where I know it has run its course. Often, I have survived for much longer than most people would, for some reason employers value me, even though I do not value myself.

Yet, inevitably, all good things must come to an end. My employer eventually grows sick of my tardiness, whilst I have grown tired of being pummeled by my anxiety every time that I am there. Thus, a standoff ensues, where, either, I leave, or they fire me. Most times, I choose to quit first.

And this is what has happened today. I chose to quit my job.

I feel shame now as I sit here and write this, moments after being distracted by a photograph held within this room. It is a photograph that was captured fourteen years ago. It is me suited and booted at my prom. My mum has, since we moved here, had it framed and placed proudly on a shelf.

Now, the sunlight, which floods through the living room window, casts upon my teenage face. It is a face that, to the untrained eye, seems thin but chiseled, features not irregular for somebody of that age.

To me though, it is the face of a child already set on a chaotic trajectory, a boy who didn’t know the harm he was causing himself, and would continue to do so for over ten years.

I am pale and skeletal. My eyes are as wide as saucers and as black as night. My dry lips are contorted into a forced, feeble grin. And my hair, which was more plentiful back then, is drenched in sweat, but not on account of the weather.

Yes, on this photo I was more wired than that bear who ingested a fuck-ton of cocaine. That day, me and my two best mates had bought a load of MKAT, a drug which was popular in the UK at that time. We sniffed it before prom, during prom, and after prom. Minutes after that photo was taken, I was caught in the toilet sniffing a huge line of it, by two abstinent classmates. They expressed their disapproval and my paranoia kicked in, so me and my mates had to bail early from the prom.

My mum doesn’t know this. And so, she shouldn’t. Because, what would she say if she did? Well, once she reads this, I am sure I will find out. Being honest with her about my past is something I still struggle with, mostly because of my anxiety, which screams for me to stay silent about those darker times—I don’t want my honesty to tarnish our relationship in any way. Nevertheless, would you tell your mum that you’re high on drugs in a photograph she has framed of you in her front room? That is an awkward conversation for sure.

I feel shame when I see the black-and-white photograph which rests next to mine. It is of my grandfather, my mother’s father, a man I never knew. He is dressed in his army uniform, him being a veteran of World War II.

He is a handsome man with brooding eyes, a strong jaw, and full cheeks. What would he think of the man I have become? Him, born of a generation of stoic men who worked hard and simply got on with it. Whereas I am born of a generation of simps who cry when they lose at FIFA.

How would he feel about my continuing to live here? Me, at thirty-years-old, still living with my mum, his daughter, too messed up mentally to cope with something as simple as a job. Me, who has repeatedly hurt her through my actions. Me, who still expects forgiveness every time that I fuck up.

My mum sometimes mentions how I remind her of her father. Apparently, I look a lot like him, although I’ve never quite seen the resemblance myself. In my opinion, me and him are like night and day.

There, in that black-and-white photograph, sits a man who commanded respect. A soldier who fought through the worst war this planet has ever experienced, survived it unscathed, married my grandmother, had two daughters, raised a family together, and then had his life cut tragically short at the age of fifty-two.

Then, stood there next to him, is me. A gaunt, foolish kid who was wired at his prom. Fourteen years later and I still haven’t got my shit put together. Yet we’re placed side-by-side on that shelf?

However, I would feel deep shame if I ended this essay in a negative light. My mind is prone to pessimism, so I hope you will forgive me. All this can be perceived from a different angle. So, here’s how it goes:

Today is the first day of a new beginning.

After each hurdle, like today’s, I learn from them and develop, even if, right now, it seems like I make the same mistakes.

I know that someday, I will make my mother proud.

I will be a man who my grandfather would like.

I will find a job that I will commit to.

Maybe I just haven’t found the right job for me yet. My passion is writing, after all.

Maybe I am simply not cut out to slave away in those monotonous jobs I have previously tried: dishwashing, cleaning, and warehouses.

I am hopeful for my future.

I guess I have to be.

Otherwise, the darkness inside me prevails.

Albeit, it is that darkness which I must overcome if I am ever to prosper.

It holds me back from trying new things, keeps me locked inside a cage of low self-esteem.

Someday, I will defeat it, though.

I will look upon that photograph of myself and know that, finally, that kid got where he needed to be.

Then, maybe, I won’t observe myself with such distaste.

Instead, I will look at myself with a smile and think, at least he turned out alright.

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