What I Felt in the Midst of Boredom
I have been tired of this job for quite some time. I have already broken my personal record for staying in one job, so even this feeling is a relatively new experience for me. In the past, the moment I began to feel bored, I would fly toward something new like a moth to a flame. I never stayed long enough to quietly observe how boredom might change and deepen over time.
What began as a passing thought—“This is getting a little boring”—gradually grew into such intense frustration that I wanted to throw down everything I was doing and scream. At times, it felt as though I had eaten until the food was stuck in my throat, or forced my body into clothes that did not fit. It made me feel almost sick.
Having to carry on with my responsibilities while feeling so bored—doing things simply because they had to be done, even though I did not want to do them—became painful. I felt irritated before I even arrived at work. But staying angry all the time was exhausting, so I developed my own way of surviving. I told myself to stop feeling and simply work. Why was I expecting so much from a job anyway?
Sometimes, instead of reacting to the boredom raging inside me, I quietly completed one task after another. When I managed to do everything I needed to do that day, and to do it well, I would feel a certain sense of accomplishment. But on the subway home, I would be completely drained. My mind would go blank, and exhaustion would wash over me. When I had to spend all my energy on something I did not want to do, I burned out that much faster.
Because I was so bored, I tried to find at least a little enjoyment wherever I could. Whenever an interesting dessert pop-up appeared nearby, I would visit it during my break. I wanted to create at least one enjoyable moment in each day. When I chatted and laughed with my colleagues about silly, trivial things, I simply laughed without thinking. Then that moment, too, passed.
If I have gained anything from this period, it is that I can now see myself more clearly.
When I first started this job, I was ashamed of how quickly I became bored and how often I moved from place to place. Most people saw this way of living as a problem, and their judgment seemed to grow stronger as I got older. I wondered whether I needed to fix myself somehow, whether I should finally learn to settle down in one place.
The truth is that I still prefer a life with movement. But I do not want to relive the instability that once filled my days, or the unimaginable loneliness, misery, and constant doubt that came with it. In this workplace especially, I was surrounded by women who valued stability. I felt as though my disposition would never be accepted there, as though I were some kind of oddity. So I scolded myself. Perhaps I needed to turn away from the part of me that made my own life difficult and learn to live a steadier, more conventional life.
Whenever someone gave me a long speech about why people eventually need to settle down, every cell in my body recoiled. Still, I told myself to listen carefully. I decided that I would stay here for at least three years. Then perhaps I could trust myself to be someone capable of enduring that long.
After two years, however, I have come to understand that this is not a question of which way of life is right or wrong. It is simply an acknowledgment that, at least for now, this is who I am.
My boredom with this life had gone beyond mental weariness. I felt physically sick. I even caught myself imagining that if this place collapsed and ceased to exist, I would finally be free. That was when I realized that a powerful current cannot be held back forever. The more tightly it is blocked, the greater it becomes, until it eventually breaks through the dam and surges forward.
Rather than trying to stop the water entirely, perhaps what matters is learning how to create a path along which it can flow.
That does not mean I intend to leave immediately. I do not know where I want to go, or even whether leaving is the right choice. My intuition keeps pulling me back, telling me that the time has not yet come.
Is it because I am afraid? Or is there still something here that I need to learn?
I do not know.
In the past, feelings this heavy would have been enough to make me leave without looking back. Yet here I am, holding my ground and refusing to move. Perhaps that is because I have begun to understand the value of the stability I once disliked so intensely.
Financial security. A sense of belonging to a company. The feeling of having somewhere to go in the morning. A regular routine. And the fact that I no longer look down on people who seek stability above all else. That, in itself, is a significant gain. After all, hardly anything in this world holds absolute value on only one side.
Perhaps I keep moving because, more than most people, I desperately want to find somewhere I can truly settle. Perhaps all this wandering has been my way of searching for a place where I can finally stay.
“I couldn’t live like that.”
“What do you mean? You love visiting new places.”
“I do. But I also like going home afterward. Isn’t that what makes a trip special? You know you can go home. What’s so bad about having a home?”
This exchange from the Netflix film Our Tenth Summer touched something in me.
A life spent wandering because stability frightens me is not truly free. But neither is a life devoted solely to safety. Perhaps genuine freedom is only possible when I understand the value of both extremes and can choose between them for myself.