So strange. I've worked full-time since Elayna was two. Part-time wasn't even an option. Grownups don't work part-time, I figured. Just teenagers in grocery stores, movie theaters.
I am going to stop working full-time because my body cannot handle working full-time. Cannot handle eight hours of pretending to be normal. Cannot handle not resting.
No matter what drugs I'm on... this is consistent.
At the age of thirty, I am no longer able to work full-time, because my body is no longer capable of doing so.
I've been viewing this as a positive thing: more time with my kid. More time to write. More time to get things done gradually, resting between tasks - less of me pressuring myself and being so angry at myself for not being able to do everything in the tiny slices of time between work and bed, in the moments seized from overprogrammed weekends.
These are positive things.
But I can't pretend that I'm not a little bit in shock.
This is foreign to me.
This is not something that someone of my former capabilities ought to be doing.
But I'm not Superwoman (anymore).
It may be a difficult few weeks. Or it may be utterly joyful. I've no way of knowing.
But this is my last day of this.