I Think I'm Dying

Oy! What a terrible week! Ever since my party my body has been rejecting me in various, awful ways. First, I had a stomach virus. Once that went away, I suffered aches and pains and chills for a few days. Then yesterday, I woke up with a cough, a sore throat, and a slightly stuffy nose. Last night I went to a reading, which ran much longer than I'd expected. About halfway through I got really hot and woozy, but that didn't stop me from going out afterwards. I was feeling okay, but by the time I got home I felt like I'd been hit by a bus. I woke up this morning with serious congestion, a pounding headache, and the whole lot of it. I think I have the flu.

I went to work anyway because I am SWAMPED this week. My co-worker and I already pushed back a deadline, and even still I don't think we'll make it. My biggest shortcoming is making accurate time estimates. By now I should know to always triple the amount of time I think I'll need. But even if I do, I still need triple of that!

The problem is, I am a major procrastinator. I can't seem to focus on any given task for more than 20 minutes at a time. I wasn't always like this. Things have gotten bad in the past year or so. There are a few reasons for this.

About a year ago I decided that I needed to change my career. I realized how much joy a creative lifestyle brought me, and I realized that my current day job just wasn't cutting it. But being the practical-minded person I am, and also being the daughter of immigrant (which means I have an inherent sense of duty), I figured there was no way I could become a WRITER. There was no way I could justify idling my days away THINKING LOFTY THOUGHTS. So, I took a career test, it said I should go into the field of psychology, which wasn't surprising.

It wasn't a bad idea. One skill I'm certain I possess is an ability to listen well, to empathize, and to deliver practical and sensitive advice. Plus, I really enjoy studying theoretical models, especially those that relate to the "human condition". I won't enumerate every reason I'm well-suited for that profession -- nevertheless, I liked the image of running a practice out of a home office while raising kids and kittens.

But once I realized I needed to take a few classes, take the GREs, probably volunteer, collect recommendations from long lost professors who likely didn't think much of me to begin with (I was a B student), I became overwhelmed by the improbability of the whole idea. A phD? After all this time! What if I hate it?

Which brought me back to writing. I thought, "Hey, I can work a senseless day job until Paul starts making decent money and then I can quit! Then I can have babies and write full-time!"

But after awhile of not taking my day job seriously AT ALL, after blogging and writing an absurd amount, I noticed that my soul began to seep from my body ever-so-slowly. I also noticed that gradually, my co-workers no longer bothered to keep me informed about incoming projects, current issues, etc.. I did the minimum of what was expected of me and that's all anyone expected of me.

Some friends seemed to think that was a gift, "As long as you don't get fired, and they keep paying you, who cares?" And that's what I told myself. Should I care if I rip-off a stupid, soul-sucking multi-million dollar corporation?

Well, I suppose my ego started to get the best of me -- as well as my dutiful and guilt-ridden immigrant roots kicked into gear. I didn't like feeling out of the loop. I didn't like being perceived as apathetic.

So, in the past month or two I've been busy as a bee, redeeming myself to myself, and straightening things out. You see, I'm actually quite good at my job -- which is why no one fires me.

But... but! I don't love it. Not by a long stretch. And this knowledge has paralyzed me in all other aspects of life.

I haven't been writing, hardly at all -- the full examination of why left for another post.

I have some ideas for an Internet project, good ones -- but have I done anything about it? No. Not at all.

It seems I enjoy myself the most when I'm walking in the park or lying on the couch with a book. Are those such bad pastimes?

Why am I so compelled to produce? Not everyone is.

For example, my brother enjoys playing music. He spends almost all his free time playing the piano. He doesn't WRITE music. Why is he satisfied? Why can't I be find a mentally stimulating, non-creative activity?

Though I suppose the real question is -- why can't I just create without the burdens that accompany the act of creating? Why must I question myself so much? Why am I so inert? Why do I assume the quality of my work is poor? Why do I ask myself questions like, "What is the meaning of all this?" when I know the only answer is, "There is no meaning to this." Why do I care?

Ugh. My nostrils are sore. Woe is me.

Maybe I'd be inspired if I had a piano like this.