Leaving a job is supposed to be that you gather up your things in a little brown box and just walk out the front door all happy, right?
It was supposed to be a happy day. Get a few drinks and then give everyone a hug and be on my next great adventure.
It isn’t so easy.
It’s fucking emotional.
I try to my hardest to keep a distance, to not get attached to people, knowing that the day will come when I gotta say goodbye. But, like always, it didn’t fucking work.
Two other colleagues before me left without a bother, just got up and walked on home without looking back. Well, granted they left on their own accord. They weren’t in the middle of a merger and the one getting the boot.
I did keep it together throughout the day, when getting my present of two books [Stephen King’s On Writing and 649 writing prompts] and a card with all their messages. I sucked it back and kept drinking. It was only when walking up the stairs to the office for the last time, that I couldn’t hold it anymore.
When you’ve lived in a house in Amsterdam for six weeks with two of them and then spend two-thirds of the last year in the same office. Without realising it, they became my family, and that’s who I was saying goodbye to.
I hate the job for giving me them, because I know I’m never going to have this again. I’m never going to have colleagues that I’ve lived with as strangers and then became a second-family.
This was supposed to be easy. Go to work, have a few drinks, say my goodbyes and go home.
There was just one thing I didn’t notice until it was too late.
I wasn’t saying goodbye to the job and colleagues.
I was saying goodbye to my family.
PS. I don’t care if you see this guys.