Quitting is Happiness
Quitting makes me happy. Quitting is a part of my self-care regimen. Quitting disentangles me from life-sucking situations. I am no mental health expert, but with over three decades of experience, I am a quitting expert.
A Brief History of Quitting
Not that I was the best kid or a star pupil. I mean, I wasn't awful or anything. Though I was forgetful. Stubborn. Annoying, at worst. At best, I was clever. Clever enough to figure out that all I needed to stay out of trouble was the opposite of whatever mistakes my sister or cousins made to upset The Grown-Ups. These "mistakes" could send my parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents into Olympic levels of fury and frustration.
No surprise there. From breaking lamps to breaking curfew to breaking laws, I watched, listened, and learned, and made mental notes along the way of what not to do.
Age 3: Taking Ballet Class. That
tutu was nothing but burlap and barbed wire. All I remember is the crying and
screaming. Probably not what Tchaikovsky had in mind (I lasted about 2 weeks before I quit).
Age 5: Eating Fish. On a family vacation near Lake Erie, I walked with my father to the beach. On the way, he said, "Hey, look, Erica. A Rainbow Trout!" What he neglected to say was that it was a half-rotted Rainbow Trout crawling with maggots. I can still smell it (2 years).
Age 7: Liking Math. In 2nd grade, I sat behind a The Smartest Kid In The Universe. One day during a subtraction test, The Smartest Kid In The Universe turned around in his seat, looked at my test, then told me I was doing it wrong. "Really. So that's how it's going to be, focker? Fine." And so, I faked math anxiety until after college when I started tutoring trigonometry. Turns out, I'm pretty great at Math. Sure showed him (6 years).
Age 9: Playing Flute. For whatever reason, we had to take an instrument. Something about being raised in a musically gifted family gave the music instructor little reason to doubt what would surely be Erica's Natural Gift. Right? Not exactly. I cannot read music for the life of me (4 months).
Age 10: Playing Flute. Again. I told the music teacher I had to quit because I had just gotten braces and the pain was unbearable, but really I did not want to learn to read music. I could play by ear and heard that if you learn to read music, you lose that (1 month).
Age 5: Eating Fish. On a family vacation near Lake Erie, I walked with my father to the beach. On the way, he said, "Hey, look, Erica. A Rainbow Trout!" What he neglected to say was that it was a half-rotted Rainbow Trout crawling with maggots. I can still smell it (2 years).
Age 7: Liking Math. In 2nd grade, I sat behind a The Smartest Kid In The Universe. One day during a subtraction test, The Smartest Kid In The Universe turned around in his seat, looked at my test, then told me I was doing it wrong. "Really. So that's how it's going to be, focker? Fine." And so, I faked math anxiety until after college when I started tutoring trigonometry. Turns out, I'm pretty great at Math. Sure showed him (6 years).
Age 9: Playing Flute. For whatever reason, we had to take an instrument. Something about being raised in a musically gifted family gave the music instructor little reason to doubt what would surely be Erica's Natural Gift. Right? Not exactly. I cannot read music for the life of me (4 months).
Age 10: Playing Flute. Again. I told the music teacher I had to quit because I had just gotten braces and the pain was unbearable, but really I did not want to learn to read music. I could play by ear and heard that if you learn to read music, you lose that (1 month).
Age 12: Playing Flute. For crap's sake. It
was my first year in a public school. For some cosmic joke of a reason I was
assigned to Orchestra but when it became clear that I did not read music, the Orchestra teacher said: "Why don't you head over to Band..." And so I went to Band where I was handed another freaking flute. After the third day, I was asked to report to Study Hall (3.5 days).
Age 14: Playing Soccer. Ah,
high school soccer. No idea what I was doing. But I was loud and had energy and a ride to the soccer field so I tried out made the cut as a sub. Turns out, I'd actually have to
play during the games. Soccer is running. Running hurt to breathe (3 months).
Age 15: Swimming. Oh
my god, Swim Team was worse than Soccer. The My teammates were amazing competitors so if I was fast enough to keep up, it hurt to breathe afterwards (3 months).
Age 16: Track and Fielding. And
by "Track and Field" I mean "shot-put" and "discus." Again, perfect form, no
distance. I made it the whole season. Ok, part of a season. It hurt to breathe when it was cold (A few weeks).
Age 18: Attending College Out of State, Pennsylvania. I went for the animation program, stayed for the guilt. At the end of the second semester, I knew I was wasting my parents' money. I'd done maybe a dozen homework assignments the whole year yet maintained Bs and As (2 semesters).
Age 22: Working at My First Real job, Western New York. After college, I took a job at a rough school. Going
home feeling guilty about how good my life had been drained me (1 academic year).
Age 23: Working in Outdoor Education, North Carolina. Rewarding job, not enough hours, physically draining (7 months).
Age 24: Interning as a Production Assistant, California. Moving to Los Angeles was only ever going to be temporary. It was an internship for the final semester of my first graduate school program in film. In the same year: a cousin died, my sister had a baby, and I was homesick (8 months).
Age 25: Working as a Wilderness Instructor, Maine. Amazing job in a breathtaking place. But guess who finds out she has exercise- and cold-induced asthma? No wonder it hurts to breathe (1 academic year).
Age 25.5: Tutoring, Connecticut. A good job in an amazing town with a verbally abusive boss (6 months).
Age 26: Research job, Connecticut. An
amazing job in an amazing city. After five years, I plateaued. The only room for advancement would be buying the company or getting a Ph.D. And I was homesick. Something about the Ph.Ds I worked with struck a chord with me. They had a great life: Flexible hours. A cafe on
the first floor. They wore jeans to work. And work had couches! Yes, a Ph.D. sounded very good (5 years).
Age 31: Getting a Ph.D., Western New York. Nooope. Nope nope nope (2.5 years).
Age 33: Adjuncting as a College English Instructor, North Carolina. A great job in a nice town. There just wasn't enough work (1.5 years).
Age 34: Teaching College Writing, South Carolina. My first full-time job in four years, but I'd rather not have to walk around a crime scene to get to my car (7 months).
Age 35: Adjuncting as a Life-Experience-Into-College-Credit Instructor, Remote. Awesome job. But they offered me a promotion and I could not do both (5 months).
While this is not a complete list, it is more than enough to see a pattern: I quit in the service of my own health, sanity, or safety. I think I'm wired that way. And I'm grateful for it. I might not know my limits, but my instincts sure do.
The Little Engine That Could Was an Ass Hat
Also, what if those circus freaks weren't just circus freaks? What if they were really black market engine-knappers who would stop at nothing to get theirs? Did the little engine think about that? Nope. He just jumps right in, thinking nothing of his own well-being.
God, that book pissed me off. The Little Engine wasn't any better than those other two engines who made a conscious choice not to expend their resources.
I can't pour from an empty cup. No one can. So, take care of your self and never stop quitting.
