At first it was a dream for me - honestly. I know that’s terrible to say. But all I ever wanted was for the world to stop, or at least slow down. Most of my issues and anxiety came from feeling like I was always running behind and never catching up to “normally functioning” people in society. And now we were all FORCED to stay home, see as few people as possible, don’t work. I couldn’t believe it.
The week before all this started, on a Monday, I laid in bed feeling listless and unmotivated, asking my boss if I could work from home today. I currently had the easiest, most flexible job I’d ever had, with a boss I genuinely liked and appreciated as a person. But after hitting the 5 month mark, I got that familiar feeling I’ve had with almost every job I’ve ever had - I wanted out. I was bored, frustrated, constrained. I knew this wasn’t it for me and I wanted something else. My boss responded “What’s wrong now” and I could feel the tone through the phone. It really bothered me and turned me off for some reason. Sent me into one of my emotional spirals. I felt like my feelings were invalidated. But I felt this often in jobs where I had never told the people I worked for about my mental illness. Because when do you bring this stuff up? If I had some other medical condition, maybe that would come up somehow. But I felt safer keeping this to myself, because I thought I would be judged and thought of as someone trying to use an excuse for different treatment.
So I went to work for the 4 hour half day. This job had become excruciating for me in particular because I was alone most of the time. Commutting to and from a town where the commute became almost an hour with traffic, even though I was still in Long Island. It felt dumb to commute to work from a computer in a small office alone. Just to have a phone call with my boss living 10 minutes away and talk to the tailors next door when I used their bathroom. I started drinking during the job, for which I felt both immensely guilty and grateful for. I loved my little lunch routines, my two-hour lunches. Where I’d float back to my office after half a carafe of red wine or a couple dirty martinis. Feeling like a failure of a person but also feeling “fun” and “carefree.” I told myself I deserved this, I was young; it was fine. But I always felt guilty. The next 3 hours at work were spent slumped at my desk wondering how early I could go home.
Now I’m entering the part of quarantine where I’m panicking. It’s May 7th - this has been going on for about two months. People are getting antsy and want to reopen. But the last thing on earth I want is to go back to my job. And I feel so guilty and broken. Why don’t I like any job I have? Why does it feel so excruciating? Do I have ADD like my old therapist thought and should just suck it up and take the adderal? Do I need to go on new meds? I hate these questions. Because going on and off meds isn’t a fun excursion. It’s usually painful and draining. And I could end up feeling worse, I always worried.
I feel like I’ve lost my writing identity. I have been trying to do this for 10 years now - 16 is when I became really obsessive about it. And now I feel so apathetic. After all of the trials and errors I’ve had with jobs, quitting and panic attacks, and crying on job interviews (Did that for the first time this February - and added the guy who made me cry on LinkedIn after. Hey, had to make it worth it somehow. I also like to add people I meet on job interviews that underestimate me because I imagine in the future I’ll finally get that job I’ve always wanted. And it will pop up on their feed and they’ll think, “wow, she’s much more capable than I thought.” And they’ll watch my career soar, job after elevated job, and realize how wrong they were about me. YOUR LOSS...I hoped.)
Anyway...after my early twenties kicked my ass, now I was just in survival mode. I barely wrote, barely pitched, didn’t go after dreams like I once did. Reached out less to people I idolized. I told myself I was just trying to live in the moment, enjoy the rest of my 20’s and not put so much pressure on myself. Live at home and spend time with my dog and parents, and just accept this time period for the mediocrity it was. But really I had given up on my identity as a writer, because I felt like a fraud. Like I was on an endless fools errand. And that scared the shit out of me. Where had my passion gone? Where was the person who thought she would write a book by 18? (I definitely wrote enough words to fill a book...not a good one, but at least I tried then.) Now I wrote scarcely, because I was afraid. The vulnerability used to feel so good, and now I just closed myself off. I just wanted one piece of my writing to end up published somewhere and then I would believe in myself. I’d become the person who thought writing to myself was a waste of time, when it used to give me so much comfort and solace and purpose. I feel like I’m starting from scratch - like I’m 15 again and have no idea what I want to do with my life. But all life is is a sequence of beginnings. I couldn’t wait around for one. I had to start anew, myself. And that shit is always so fucking scary. Because there’s no map. You have to make the plan yourself. And you don’t even know where to begin. What is the first step?
Is it this?
Is it this?
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