So here I am -- 42 and still of flesh and blood -- yay... I've known now for 22 years that the best thing for everybody (and it's not all that many people, believe me...) is for me to be gone. But in the meantime, I have to work for a living. I know, I know -- I should be lucky to have a full-time job in this economy, and you're right. But for the most part in those past 22 years, that's all I've really had of any importance or significance -- save a friend here and there, but eventually I manage to burn bridges. Anyway, since a job is all I've really had, my investment into it was way out of proportion with other areas of my life that were empty. I really placed too much importance and self-pressure with my jobs. When I was younger, I really went all out. I wanted to feel in control of my workspace, and if anybody didn't comply, my temper would flare up quicker than an A-bomb. Later on, I mellowed out, realizing yelling and complaining didn't get me anywhere. Still, however, my validity in this world depended on my job. I noticed this yesterday very clearly. I was sort of in charge of my workplace in the absence of my superior. Needless to say, there's a lot of reports, counts, scans, customer assistance and checking involved with working for the Postal Service. I have to say that I handled it pretty well, but that's nothing new. I know when it gets busy or harried or stressful (up to a point) that even though I might groan slightly or roll my eyes that I really take it all in stride -- immersing myself in the idea of staying visibly busy and coming through in the clutch -- straying away from the fact that I had absolutely nothing to do this Labor Day weekend. Even on days where I'll start out depressed, eventually I know I'll have no choice but to be civil, if not friendly with the customers and professional with my co-workers. I now understand why I felt so confused when I left for the day at an office I previously worked at. The retail window was much busier, and there were carriers that worked out of this office whereas there are none in my current workplace. It got to the point where I was overworked. When I was done, I wasn't sure if I was productive enough. In some earlier jobs, I was easy pickings to be ribbed and teased -- though not maliciously, I understood that. But I had to stick with it, what else could I do? And all this would not be an issue if I was talking about working at something I really liked. I know I like the idea of doing a good job, but that's not the same thing. I'll just be depressed and wish I was dead until Tuesday rolls around and I'll jump back into being Mr. Consciencous Employee. If I realized how little work meant in the long run (it's not like I'm a doctor or fireman) then maybe I'd finally realize I'm killing time on this earth when I should be really killing myself. I have no more desire for anything else, and if I focus all my energy into my job, then I'm just going to continue being the zombie that I am now. I have to see that my job means NOTHING. I'm only financially supporting myself. I don't have my own family. It means NOTHING, thus I mean NOTHING. The sooner I realize that, the better.