I’ll admit my timing has never been that good. Last week, in the midst of the recession and spiralling unemployment, I handed in my notice.
At a time where people are scared to breathe for fear of being let go, I prayed for redundancy every night and when it became clear there were none on the table, I wrote the letter I had been composing in myhead for the last seven years, handed it in to HR and breathed a deep sigh of relief.
The reaction of my friends and family when I told them I had given up a secure job in the IFSC, with health insurance, a pension and €55K a year, to join the benefits queue, was mixed to say the least. My father called me a fool and many colleagues said “you are so brave!”when I could see that what they really meant was “how stupid you are!'’
On the other hand, I have had a lot of positive messages. My mother applauded me for finally making the move and one old rogue in the office sent me a really rather touching e-mail wishing me all the best, saying how pleased he was for me and although a brave move, how admirable it was to be following my dreams. Only one friend told me how reckless I was, the rest were all extremely positive and happy for me. Of course this may be more to do with the fact they no longer have to listen to me moaning about the job but I’d like to think it’s more to do with their genuine concern for my welfare.
Seven years is, I agree, a long time to spend in a job I abhorred but getting caught up in the Celtic Tiger boom years meant I ended up relying on the money. Not such a sum that I was able to spend everynight in Shanahans but plenty to allow me to live the life of a typical South Dublin girl in her twenties. I rented a plush apartment on Grand Canal Dock, shopped in Brown Thomas on a weekly basis and bought all my food in Marks and Spencer, neatly packaged in its plastic containers.
To make up for the total lack of interest in my weekday job, I was living for the weekends. I loved them and spent then as hedonistically as I could. A typical Saturday involved spending hundred of Euros on Grafton Street before heading out for dinner and drinks in town, then to a club and afterwards to all-night party which typically ended up in a seedy early house in Smithfield on Sunday morning. The rest of Sunday was for bed, then an evening take-away and a bottle of wine before the dreaded Sunday night depression kicked in and thus began the working week again - the excesses of the weekend being erased in thrice-weekly gym sessions and a carb-free diet.
By the end of the month I was as broke as the next person and my life had become a meaningless predictable treadmill of more of the same. I had to stay in my IFSC job to fund my lifestyle and pay my debts, only belatedly coming to the realisation that I was only living like this to cheer myself up simply because I was in a job I couldn’t bear.Walking to work each morning induced a spiral of depression that lasted until 5.30pm and when I did get home I was ready for nothing but watching meaningless drivel on the television. A once voracious appetite for books, galleries and the theatre had long since subsided and life had really become meaningless.
I could see only one way out; further education. Two years ago I embarked on a postgraduate evening course in Griffith College. As a mature student, things were rather different than my previous times spent in educational institutions. Not the best student when I was in college, suddenly I became a head girl type – always early for class,never missing a deadline and even studying for exams weeks in advance. I was officially the class swot as opposed to the rebel who had previously been expelled from not one but two secondary schools and who had somehow cruised through an Arts degree in UCD.
I put this down to the fact that finally I was studying something I was passionate about and I was now mature enough to realise that at the age of 30, it was the last throw of the dice. Looking around the office, the thought that I was morphing into my institutionalised colleagues who had spent years sitting on the same chair, doing the same mundane paper shuffling job their whole lives, who still complained yet were too afraid to do anything about it, scared the hell out of me. I knew if I didn’t do something about it now, not only would I regret it, I would hate myself forever.
Having lectures to go to three evenings a week and essays to write at weekends should have been a chore but I absolutely thrived on it. My swotting and general sucking-up to the lecturers was rewarded with a first class honours and now I know it may just be possible to earn a living through what I enjoy. The thought of having little or no money rolling in at first isn’t scary anymore. As long as I am motivated, I shouldn’t have to be on job seekers allowance for long and if I am on it for more than a month or two, I am going to play it like a game, enjoying seeing how far my money will stretch.
I realise that by writing this, I am at risk of incurring the wrath of the many people in Ireland who have lost their jobs involuntarily and I wholeheartedly sympathise with them. Yet I am at the stage where my own happiness is now more important to me than money. I guess the point I am trying to make is that people whoare unhappy in their jobs should not be scared by the recession into staying where they are. They shouldn’t be scared into keeping up a certain style of living, afraid of what might happen if they do followtheir dreams and in the process won’t be able to afford the fancy face-cream, the designer clothes or dinner out twice a week.
Without these things, life will still go on. Don’t be scared by the countless media stories concerning job losses, recession, and repossessions. If you are unhappy, take the plunge: life really is too short to waste.
As for the future, well I am feeling exhilarated. I finish up in three weeks time and look forward to the challenge. I’m excited about having to buy my clothes in charity shops, I’m excited about the supermarket price wars and I’m excited about meal planning and rationing, as opposed to popping to the shops to buy whatever the hell I want at that particular moment in time.
Whatever happens, it is a move that will certainly turn my life upside down and after seven years in a grey office looking out at the same concrete view, that can’t be bad.
