Bad enough that every day feels like a punishment for a choice I barely remember making.
And if I dare complain, Ernest’s voice echoes in my head: “You self-selected for this role.”
The expectations?
They are not expectations. They are shackles.
Seven days a week. Twenty-four hours a day. No pause. No mercy. No life. And still “You self-selected for this role.”
Four jobs crammed into one because people burn out and leave, and replacements never come. Their absence becomes my burden. And still “You self-selected for this role.”
Forced into company charity work, even though my own family barely remembers what I look like. And still “You self-selected for this role.”
Begging for scraps of budget, even with a team of a hundred souls. Every dollar has to pass through Ernest, because we are all assumed to be thieves stealing from his bonus. Because God knows, we will never see one. But of course “You self-selected for this role.”
I missed my son’s entire summer of sports. Every game. Every smile. Every memory.
Gone. Because I was chained here.
I leave home at five in the morning, return after seven at night, and collapse into bed only to wake up still exhausted.
I have fallen asleep in the bathroom at work. I have fallen asleep driving to work.
I confessed this once to my colleagues. You know what they said?
“Do not say anything. Do not make Ernest angry. He does not care.”
And he does not.
We cancelled the VIA because Ernest did not want to hear the complaints.
The job market is brutal, and he knows it. He wears it like armor, like permission to treat us all like dirt. Like criminals. As if respect is too expensive a luxury to waste on us.
Quarterly reviews? Forget it. My boss literally told me to just get AI to generate something. Promotions? Not a chance. Ernest fills jobs from the outside, proudly waving the diversity flag, while those of us drowning here never get pulled from the water.
Every single person in Supply Chain hates their job in Spring.
We are exhausted. We are broken. We bleed for this place, and in return we get nothing. No bonuses. No stock worth anything. Just the knowledge that Ernest collects his fat paycheck on the blood and sweat of our backs.
And the Fire Side Chat?
God. Two hours before, you will hear someone calling this place what it is, a shithole. But once the cameras roll, suddenly it is smiles and empty words about how great it all is.
It is pathetic. It is tragic.
We are so dysfunctional it hurts.