I Knew My Job Was Wrong When My Body Started Keeping Score

Monday, 7:20 a.m. My body got there first.

The alarm goes off a third time. I turn it off. Seventeen red dots sit in the work chat. I stare at them. My stomach shrinks before I open anything. A strip of light crosses the floor and lands on one slipper. I sit up. My feet find the other. It takes two tries.

I am not lazy. I have been here before.

A good job can still be tiring. The difference is what happens after sleep. If I can get up the next day, I am tired. If the alarm makes my shoulders ache before I move, I am somewhere else. I know that now.

Sunday, 9 p.m.

I sit on the couch. The TV is on. I am not watching. My phone is beside me, screen down. In twelve hours, there is a weekly meeting. I think about the spreadsheet due tomorrow, the “revise it again” from my manager, the “received” from colleagues in the group chat. I pick up the phone. I put it down. I open the food delivery app. I scroll two pages. I close it. I open the job app. I look at three listings. I close it. I tell myself to endure a little longer. I have said that many times. I stopped counting.

The bathroom stall on the third floor.

The lock is loose. I sit on the toilet lid. No signal. Someone washes their hands outside. The water is loud. I count seven breaths. The first is my manager tagging me in the group chat. The second is the client changing the requirements. The third is a colleague pushing blame my way. I count to seven. I stand. I flush. I wash my hands. I put on lipstick. The person in the mirror smiles. The corners of her mouth go up. Her eyes do not move.

I go back to my desk. I open the document. I keep editing. There is a hair under the keyboard cover. I pull it out and flick it away. The third leaf of the pothos has turned yellow. I cut it with scissors. I leave it on the corner of the desk. At 3 p.m., I take a sip of coffee. It is cold.

When I ask a question.

I ask a colleague about a process. He does not look up. “You don’t even know that?” I pause. “I haven’t done it before.” He says, “Read the docs.” I open the docs. Three hundred pages. I find the table of contents. I turn to page forty-seven. I read for ten minutes. I still do not get it. I walk to the stairwell. I message a friend: “Am I stupid?” My friend replies: “You weren’t like this before.” I read it. I put the phone back in my pocket. The stairwell smells like smoke. I stand for a while. I hear someone coming up. I turn and push the door. I go back to my desk.

The day my paycheck arrives.

The number is one thousand two hundred more than my last job. I calculate rent, utilities, commute, takeout. Three hundred left. I open my shopping cart. I delete two items. I send my mother two hundred. She replies: “Keep it for yourself.” I do not reply. That night I work until nine. I take a taxi home. It costs forty-six. I sit in the back seat. I watch the streetlights run backward one by one. The driver listens to the radio. The host says the temperature dropped today. I remember the old coat in my closet. I bought it last year. I have not worn it much.

The arrows on my physical exam report.

The report comes out. I turn to page three. Three arrows. One up. One down. The doctor says it is stress. Rest more. I nod. I fold the report. I put it in my bag. On the way back to the office, I buy a cup of soy milk. It burns my hand. I switch hands. I reach the office. The report is still in my bag. I sit at my desk. I turn on the computer. I log into the chat. I reply to messages. I forget the report.

A friend says I’ve changed.

I go home for the New Year. The first time my friend sees me, he says, “You’ve lost weight.” I smile. “Dieting.” He says, “Not that kind of thin.” I look down at the menu. I order an iced americano. He asks how work is. I say, “It’s okay.” He looks at me. He does not ask again. After dinner, I rush to pay. He stops me. He says, “You didn’t use to be like this.” My hand stops in the air. I pull it back. I put it in my pocket. It is raining outside. We stand under the eaves. My ride arrives. I get in. I roll down the window. I say, “I’m off.” He nods. The car pulls away. I watch him in the rearview mirror. He is still standing there.

The mirror after three months.

Third month on the job. I get home at 10 p.m. I am alone in the elevator. I look at my reflection in the elevator door: shirt wrinkled, hair flat, mouth turned down. I remember the first day. I wore a new shirt. I arrived half an hour early. I waited at the front desk for HR. I smiled a lot then. Now I cannot. I open the door. I change shoes. I turn on the light. The cat is asleep on the couch. I crouch to pet it. It does not wake. I sit on the floor, back against the couch. My phone rings. Work group. I look for three seconds. I do not reply. I stand up. I go to the kitchen. I boil water. The water boils. I make instant noodles. I eat. I wash the dishes. The sound of bowls and chopsticks is loud in the kitchen. I dry my hands. I turn off the light.

Six months.

Six months later, I wake up before the alarm. I lie in bed. I think about what I have to do today. I think of a person, a thing, a report not yet submitted. I turn over. I pick up the phone. Twenty-three red dots in the work group. I open it. I scroll down. I see a message: “You’ll lead this project.” I stare at the screen. My finger hovers over the keyboard. I type “Okay.” I delete it. I type “Received.” I delete it. Finally I send “Mm.” I put the phone down. I get up. I brush my teeth. Toothpaste foam drips onto my pajamas. I wipe it with a tissue. I throw the tissue at the trash can. This time it goes in.

I turn the phone face down.

I sit on the edge of the bed. The phone screen is up. The work group is still jumping. I pick it up. I turn it over. Screen down. The alarm goes off again. 8:07. I stand up. I walk to the closet. I take out the old shirt. I put it on. I button it to the third button. I look in the mirror. I fix the collar. I pick up my bag. I leave. On the subway, I stand by the door. My hand holds the rail. The train starts. Outside the window is dark. I remember a listing I saw yesterday on the job app. Three stops from my home. I open my phone. I find the listing. I save it. I do not apply. I put the phone back in my pocket. I look up at the route map. Next stop. Transfer.