The Deep Mid-Life Rot that Began in a Spreadsheet and Ended on a Bathroom Floor

Dear Delyara, I was updating our quarterly performance projections today, staring at a series of colorful bar charts that supposedly measure the value of my existence on this planet. Suddenly, the numbers blurred. A wave of intense, physical nausea hit me so fast I barely made it to the cubicle in the staff toilets. I sat on the cold tile floor with my head against the partition, sobbing silently so the HR manager wouldn't hear me through the gap. I have given twelve years to this company. I have climbed the ladder. I have the job title. And I would rather be anywhere else on earth than in this skin. I am successfully building someone else's dream while my own life rots in the dark.