Sitting in the Departure Lounge

I'm afraid that I'm finding coming up with anything to post today difficult - I'm more than a little distracted.  Things are going on at work which, I think, will finally result in my departure from the snake pit it has become.  I thought for while that I could reduce my working hours and carry on for a while that way, but it is clear that I was deceiving myself - the job is making me ill and will continue to do so, no matter how many, or how few, hours I work at it.  I've actually got a doctor's appointment scheduled for next week, during which I'm hoping to address several outstanding medical issues currently plaguing me, as well as the issues the work related stress are causing me.   In fact, I'd like to confirm that the way I'm feeling is down to the stress and doesn't have some other underlying cause.  Pending the outcome of this appointment, I'll make a firm decision on my future at work.  The facts is that I have no mortgage to pay anymore, no dependents and money in the bank.  Financially, I'm secure for the foreseeable future.  So, really, there's nothing to stop me from walking away.

I must admit that, over the past few days, I've been guided by the things I've said here, over the past three years or so, about my future at work.  Past me was quite consistent: once the mortgage was paid, I was walking.  Yet I haven't - more recent me has betrayed past me.  Part of the problem is that I've listened to too many people who have cautioned restraint, urged me to be 'sensible'.  But the fact is that none of them have any idea of just how sick the job is making me.  There are, of course, a select number of friends and family who have consistently advised me to quit.  I should have listened to them and acted on their advice sooner.  A couple of years ago, after yet another attempt to force me out of my job, I went AWOL for an afternoon - at one point I drove past a cafe called 'The Departure Lounge' (it's still there, as far as I know).  I thought at the time how apt that was as, with only a couple of years to go to pay off the mortgage that, effectively, was where I was: in the departure lounge.  Well, I've tarried there too long and I think, at last, that my flight is being called.