Bad days

I’m having a bad day. And I’m so glad nobody is reading this. I feel pathetic writing this. But I’m writing. I’m writing. Because I can’t seem to work. And I can’t seem to calm down. And I’m feeling nervous. And wrong. About everything. This isn’t my life. How did I let it get this way? How did I not do what I wanted to do? How did I let fear of everything govern all of my decision making? How is it that I sought someone (anyone’s?) approval in every important decision of my life? I am realizing that I am still a child in many ways. I still have my daily life ruled by punitive and fear-based measures. I must work or they’ll get mad at me and fire me. I don’t quit my job and go to India because I am scared of being without money. Because being poor is worse than being alone, right? Because however much I alienate people, if I still have money I’ll be alright? Bullshit. I am so confused about my own safety. I feel unsafe. Why? I have enough in the bank. One or two more months at my job I’ll have around 10,000 dollars. This is not insignificant. Lots of people my age are in debt. I have none. But I go in and out of society. Work for a while. “Live” for a while. I need to figure out how to make a living and be happy. I need to find a job I not only tolerate, but like, if not love, and that I find meaningful. Because meaning without reward is also tough. Working non-profit, nobly, for years, was great, but also stressful and thankless. And I have a plan now to save as much as I can. And then take 6 months to a year off, and really, really work on my writing. Take on part time work only, only, only if I like it. Cooking might be an answer. Freelance writing and editing might be an answer. And with money in the bank, I won’t have to break my neck looking for these opportunities. I’ve been ignoring fateful connections for a while. People saying to me, “hey, I know one of the country’s best chefs…he may need help…here take is number…” –and I refuse, saying I’m not in the right place right now. I’ve had a museum almost begging me to work as an editor there. A museum. The best one in the country. And I’m exploding with stories. And I don’t have the energy to write them down. And the emotional toll is excruciating. I hate getting up and wasting days and days and weeks and more. I hate my job. Period and period again. So what to do?

• Figure out my number–how much saved in the bank do I need to live 6-12 months without freaking out?
• Work hard now — leave the job well
• Figure out the exit strategy — they’ve been “trying” to hire me help for two months. Hire this person ASAP. Train them quickly. Be enthusiastic. Try to get them to hire more help. Then, give them at least a months notice **after** you hit the goal amount in the bank
• Start to live more frugally
• Calculate your expenses, babe. You are so fly by the seat of your pants, darlin’, just making sure you have more than enough in the bank. That ain’t good enough no more.
• Want to travel? Really research the India trip / visit home to USA with regards to expenses, timing, etc
• Figure out, with your therapist, with yourself, maybe even with your friends, a method of really whipping yourself into shape with regards to discipline. Writing. Cleaning house. Getting out and seeing friends. Finding literary agents. Incentive. Writing groups with deadlines. Fixed scheduled meetings with friends. Do it. Really do this. Without sticking to something like this, you will slip, you will lose yourself in your paid job, you will allow yourself to lose your sense of spirit and joy, you will be tired, just like now.

I am having a bad day. My therapist is leaving for the States forever, and I’m going to miss her. I’m scared. But this, too, will pass. I have no energy now. And I’m scared I will be fired for not working. But I hate this job anyway. Oh sweetness and light that you are, stop this! Try to get even a little work done. Have a pleasant coffee. Breathe deeply. And then you will go to your therapist. And then you will go home again. Good or bad, you will be OK. You are closer to figuring this out than any other time in your life, you know. Yes, I know. Emotionally cleaning out the closet was necessary. What I know is that if I don’t create and express myself, my body and life become toxic. For good or bad, I must write. I must write. I must sing, shout, dance, cry, make cake, and write. Write.