Rituals Aren’t the Only Things Ruled by Compulsion
Yesterday, my anger finally spilled over at work. It started like any other Thursday — heavy freight, short-staffed, everyone tired. But when management decided to send home the coworkers who had come in on their day off earlier in the week, everything shifted.
The only reason seemed obvious: avoid paying them overtime. Never mind that Mondays are our most understaffed days. Never mind that those people helped keep us afloat. Instead, we were left with fewer hands on one of our reasonably busier days.
I felt frustration rising even before the afternoon sort began. My job was to push freight down the slides from the top of the conveyor belts, making sure boxes reached the right cans. For a while, things were steady. But less than an hour in, the freight started piling high. We were stacking boxes so tall we couldn’t even see our coworkers at the bottom, hoping nothing rolled down and hit them.
What frustrated me most wasn’t just the work itself — it was watching people stand around, chatting, with no urgency as the piles grew. I could feel my anger bristle, like hackles rising.
The Word I Couldn’t Say
In the morning meeting, management promised we’d be done between 2:30 and 3:30 p.m. At first, it sounded reasonable. But once they announced more than a dozen people would be sent home, and once it was clear most of the part-timers weren’t showing up, I knew it was impossible.
Still, we pressed on. I distracted myself by talking to the coworkers beside me — the ones I trust, the ones I can work alongside without losing my mind. But the slowdown at the bottom dragged everything else down, and the team lead that supervised us just stood around, watching. The only time they moved was when their friends were working. Everyone else? “Fuck you, do your job.”
As the sky grew darker with sudden rain and the promised end time slipped further away, I lost it. My anger boiled over.
And that’s when I realized the word I’d been circling in my first “Bound by Compulsion: The Hidden Cost of Rituals We Can’t Escape” article — the word I couldn’t name then — had been staring me in the face all along.
That word is enough.
I’m Never Enough
At nearly every job I’ve had, I’ve felt like I was never enough: Not good enough, not needed enough, not smart enough, not successful enough.
No matter how much I create — my blog, my stickers, my hoodie, my manifestos — it never silences the voice inside that says:
You’re worthless. You’re weak. You’re pathetic. You’re never good enough.
That’s why I don’t rest. That’s why I keep pushing. Because resting feels like proof of my worthlessness. Even when I tell myself I’ll take a break, I don’t.
That, if I keep building up more evidence that I’m not worthless, weak, pathetic, and never good enough, maybe I could finally convince myself to believe that I am enough.
It still has yet to happen…
Yesterday, that weight of time marching on pressed down harder than ever, like a boot at the back of my neck. And my anger — the old familiar companion — took over.
My Anger Wasn’t Justified
As the clock kept ticking past the supposed end time, I watched management glare down at us from the windows above our sorting area. It felt like we were to blame for them being stuck there while we carried the load. My body was breaking down — the boxes were heavier, my strength was gone, I was getting so hungry, and I had to let more and more freight pass me by. My coworkers along the conveyor belt needed to pick up my slack frustrated me more.
I spiraled. I said out loud I wanted to die, that all this giving and breaking ourselves down for this job left us with nothing in return. Nothing.
And then I snapped. Not at management. Not at the people standing around. At someone I could actually call a friend. I didn’t scream at her, but my voice rose and my anger spilled out. She didn’t deserve it. It came out when she mentioned being patient, that we were almost done work, but my spirals don’t care about that.
I had been patiently waiting for years that it felt like a burden waiting more. I wanted to die again. I mentioned this feeling in, Some Days I Don’t Want to Be Here — On Surviving When Everything Else Feels Heavy, but I struggled to keep myself in check.
I couldn’t follow my own advice because I wanted this pain of feeling time slip by as I kept getting nothing in return for killing myself at a job that would easily replace me, if I got too out of hand or just existing, weighing down on me.
Afterward, my friend asked if I was okay. I just shook my head, too tired to form words. She stayed patient anyway, talking to me, waiting for her Hot Cheetos delivery while I grabbed my things and left.
I felt ashamed. I still do.
Enough
I don’t want anger to rule my life. But it has, for a long time. Practicing patience is hard when people disappoint me, when I disappoint myself, when nothing ever feels like enough.
Snapping yesterday wasn’t justified. But naming what happened — naming the word that haunts me — is at least a step. Maybe the next time I feel myself bristling from things out of my control, I can pause before I snap. Maybe I can remember that I don’t have to measure my worth against impossible expectations.
For now, though, I’m still sitting with anger, exhaustion, and the weight of not feeling enough. But at least I’ve given it words.
Reflection
Have you ever felt anger take over at work, only to regret how it came out later? Or felt that crushing sense of “not enough” hang over you, no matter what you’ve accomplished?
If this piece resonates with you — even quietly — liking, subscribing, or sharing helps this little archive grow. It’s how more people in similar situations can find these words and know they’re not alone.
Thank you for reading, whether this is your first visit or you’ve been returning in silence.
— The Stratagem’s Archive
