Letting go

It has been nearly four months since I quit my job.

Last night, I met a former coworker for a couple of beers. I caught up on some of the office news, the state of some big projects that were in mid-stream when I left, stuff like that. No major news on the surface, at least none that he had access to. Nothing really changes.

At one point I was trying to tell him this story. A couple of weeks before I quit, I was in a conference room with my manager and several of my peers. I remember the meeting because I got so angry over something my boss said that I began yelling, pounding the table, rising out of my chair to do so, my face bright red and my whole body shaking with rage. It was the day I knew once and for all that I had to leave, and soon. I didn’t get fired for it, miraculously, but you just can’t stay somewhere if that sort of outburst is even possible.

But here’s the thing: while I was telling him this last night, I couldn’t remember what I was so mad about. No idea. I had a vague recollection that it was about this one other coworker, but I wasn’t even sure about that. I remembered the anger, sure. But I couldn’t remember why.