Here's the sitch.

I can precisely date the moment at which I said "I have to get out of here" about my job.

It was July 2nd, 2001. I had just returned from my vacation. In one hour of phone meeting, work sucked all the vacation out of me. Because my beloved manager and my spectacularly competent co-worker filled me in on what had happened in my week-long absence.

Today is September 28, 2001. It's been almost two months since that epiphany. I am still at the same job. I have lost the ability to even pretend to give a damn. My co-workers are noticing. My professional pride is gone, and shame isn't enough to motivate me any more.

And I don't know when or if I will be able to leave. Because the job offer that was half-promised in July and definitely promised in August has STILL not made its way past the CEO's desk and been signed.

Compared with living in Afghanistan, I'm getting off easy. But I've lost all ability to think of anybody's misery but my own and my husband's.

I am really sick of waking up wishing I hadn't.

It's gotten to the point that every small domestic difficulty feels like a sledgehammer to the gut.