For over 10 years, I’ve done my job of telling other people’s stories.
Today, I write my own.
And I’d start by describing how my life currently feels like it's in limbo.
It was Monday afternoon. I was typing on my laptop faster than usual, eager to tell my work bestie everything I’d just heard. The click and clack on my keypad grew louder as I raced to finish each sentence before my brain jumps to another piece of information, fearing I’d forget in a second. Breathing became difficult by the minute, as if there was an invisible weight pressing down my chest. Heat surrounded my eyes and a lump formed in my throat. I reached for my glass of water only to find it was empty. Next thing I knew, I was gasping for air, crying. As far as I can remember, it was my first panic attack in post-pandemic times. Right there and then, I gave in to my feelings and thoughts – those worries and fears – that rushed to me all at once.
The 30-minute call I had with my other work bestie before I had that panic attack was not reassuring at all despite us dropping punchlines and laughing in between. I checked in on her (while I was crying) and she admitted that right after our call, she had to go back to her airconditioned room for some air – yes, she said that.
During that call she asked, “What now?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
All we both had were just speculations – that our company would shut down in a matter of days, that people in the newsroom are probably talking about it within their circles, that the upper management could be drawing up an irresistible severance package, and so on. There had been at least two rounds of layoffs in the past years, and I remember crying for workmates-turned-friends who never imagined the day they would be asked to leave. I can’t recall worrying about my fate during those times, but I do remember being thankful for being one of the long-tenured employees.
It’s been nearly 12 years since I first walked into the office for an interview. I remember my would-be boss asking me about what I think a production assistant does. I would answer, trying to appear confident, that a P.A. helps complete tasks necessary for a production, someone who does a lot of walking and running from one place to another. He called me out and said I was wrong. He even threatened to contact my college professors and reprimand them. But who would have thought that years later, I would become an executive producer – for a primetime newscast anchored by a veteran journalist.
But this week, it hit me – this is it. I’m losing my job – a job I once dreamed and prayed for. A job that made me laugh and cry and drove me crazy. A job that I love and hate at the same time. A job that has sustained me. A job that, sadly, I promised I would escape very soon.
Now that destiny has made it easier for me to quit… somehow, I want to turn back time and do it all over again.
And even if I feel like I am suspended in uncertainty, wondering what comes next and where my path leads…
I’m left with no other choice but to pray for the best…
to carry on… and to keep telling stories.
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