THE OTHER SIDE OF FEAR

For the past three years I lived my life in silent misery and despair. The sensation of actual physical pain clenched at my mind like metal prongs, a systematic torture I consciously put myself through with calculated purpose every single day.

The 10-day trip to Spain with my boyfriend seemed like a lifeline where I, the prisoner would be let out for a few hours to smell the air and see the trees move. On the third day of my trip I knew something was very wrong. Deep seeded pangs ate my stomach, cold whiffs of air crawled through my hair, adrenaline kicked in, migraines clawed at my brain, shortness of breath paralyzed me, I had that glazed far-away look and coppery taste of fear in my mouth that could only mean I was having a good ole panic attack. A panic attack I have had for the past three years working as an auditor for corporate America. The soul-crushing, meaningless job that paid for a trip I didn't even get to enjoy.

This was not how it was all supposed to go down for me, no. There are milestones in life we are all programmed to go through. We go to school and study our asses off, pick majors that are supposed to pay the big bucks, we get the first job that's offered just to start paying off those credit cards and bills, we advance in our careers and never accept lower salaries even if it means more happiness, and some of us if we are really lucky are able to work our dream jobs and make big bucks.

I was 32, clinging to a job I was physically and mentally allergic to, but refusing to let go because it was a career choice I made and I was afraid. During my trip to Spain I would periodically lock myself in the bathroom, turn on the shower and cry, sobbing and hating my own inability to quit to save if not my life then at least whatever was left of my debilitating health.

In Spain, between savory patatas bravas and dry red wine I realized what I wasn't. I wasn't happy. I was a part of the working dead – a generation carefully programmed by society to accept their fate and never change course no matter what.

Everyday for the past three years, I convinced myself that life as an auditor was a blessing for someone like me. A creative writer and painter with her head in the clouds, I was making more money than I ever thought I would and buying myself stuff I didn't need.

I brushed shoulders with other sleepers just like myself. Exhausted, they swayed like skeletons on the bus staring blankly into space. Depressed, they would rest their tired heads on my shoulders on their way back home from their meaningless jobs. Some knocked me over rushing the streets of the city in their utmost desperation to get to their empty shitty meetings. I was beyond dead, I was worse, everyday I threw the key to life and happiness straight into the warden's paw who upon securing the gold-handcuffs preceded to beat all cerebral shit out of me. Sucked me dry leaving behind but a shadow of what I could have become and the dreams I could have made into reality.

Most auditors I knew had a myriad of physical and emotional problems; anger issues, aggression, alcoholism, the inability to maintain stable relationships, ulcers, heart problems, diabetes, and most importantly uncontrollable, icy-cold fear. Stress is the silent killer, and stress on the job kills swiftly and mercilessly.

When I brought up my thoughts to a friend she looked at me and continued looking. "You're lucky you have a job! And a six-figure salary WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??" What was wrong with me was that I was slowly rotting inside out every.single.day. And the money I made no longer kept the rot away.

Epiphany hit me – literally when I got up one morning to go to my fucked-up job that scheduled an 8AM meeting on a Friday. Happy. Fucking. Friday!!

I dragged my anxious, haggard frame out the door without even looking in the mirror. I walked slowly down the streets sniffing at the morning air and wondering where I went wrong in life that butterflies made permanent home at the pit of my stomach. That day just like every other day began with a cup of coffee and the same fantasy my brain replayed on automatic. I do a bouncety-bounce bounce into my boss's office and hand in my resignation letter, and then scurry out the door without a two-week notice. Slowly but surely a familiar rush of euphoria and unearthly happiness washed over me. It was this pornographic day-dream that clouded my brain that day in August.

It was my right of way and I started crossing the street still in the clutches of my quit-and-split reverie. At first, I heard the roar of engine coming to life, then I saw the car making a left turn and gaining speed, and too late I felt sharp pain shoot through my body as the car hit and ran me over.

As the ambulance raced me to the nearest hospital I took out my phone and with shaky numb hands texted my boss that I will not be coming in to work that day. Amongst the pain that shot through multiple areas of my body, the dizziness and nausea that clouded my brain I felt a rush of excitement and joy. I didn't have to go to work that day, I didn't have to sit at the ridiculous meeting and pretend I cared, I no longer had to be somebody I wasn't. It was a happy Friday after all. A Happy Fucking Friday to me!

Fast forward two months and weeks of recovery. I quit my job and made a strict definitive plan to pursue my dreams.

As for what lies on the other side of fear? Support from those that truly love me, hope for a better life, faith that uncertainty is healthy, doubts about my decisions, disillusionment with the ideal, and finally hours of hard labor that bring me closer to my goal.