My grandfather was a work addict. I remember when he fell from the roof of our barn and shattered his foot. He was in a wheelchair for almost a month while they did the surgeries and inserted the pins and then waited to see if it would heal right.
It mostly did. He limped for the rest of his life though.
It was less than a week after his last surgery before he had figured how to get that wheelchair to the factory where he worked and then how to get around the factory in the wheelchair. This was before the age of ADA, and I know that what he did was far from easy. But he could not not work. That would be insanity.
I never figured that I had that kind of work ethic. Or addiction. I like to lounge around and read and write and play music and think. I like time off. I like five hour trips to the gym and spending a day exploring trails on foot or on a bike. I like those things so much that in the past I chose my jobs based on how much time I would have to do the things I enjoy.
Somewhere along the way things changed. I still love all those things that are not work. I crave them. But now, work comes first. Ok, so that sounds like a no-brainer. Of course work comes first. Bills to pay, things to get done, all that nonsense. I’m not talking about that. I’ve always been good about going to work every day that I was supposed to and doing all the tasks that I was supposed to do. This is a different kind of first. This is a first that is before everything else – before food or sleep or exercise or friends or dog or family. It has been this all-absorbing totally consuming experience.
It has not been pleasant.
Apart from the physical manifestations of stress – hives being the prime example (it is always a joy to realize that you have once again gotten into a situation where you have become allergic to your life) – I slipped into some very self-destructive patterns. Not exercising. Drinking ridiculous amounts of booze. And by ridiculous I mean much more than what I usually consider heavy drinking. Sleeping pills. Uppers. Downers. Everything else that is required to feign normalcy when nothing is normal.
I used to tell people that I don’t have an addictive personality. That is a lie. I do not have the kind of addictive personality that gets hooked on cigarettes or drugs or even alcohol. But I do get hooked on behaviors. Like exercise. Like work. Like picking at my fingers until they bleed when I am stressed. And when I get hooked on a behavior that disrupts my positive addictions then I fall back on the superficial – on the chemicals and the additives and the supplements and whatever else will feed my physical ability to pursue my new addiction.
For the last several months – since June, really, I’ve been working some ridiculous hours. And it isn’t the kind of work where you do some task, and then you wait or you take a break or you regroup and then do another task. This is the kind of work where there are three or four tasks going on simultaneously, and any pause in the one is filled by effort on another. Lunch is a cup of soup at the desk. There are no breaks. I get up to either pull something off the printer or run something upstairs. It got to a point where my deadlines were so tight and the meetings scheduled on top of each other and my general workload was so heavy that I didn’t have time to go to the restroom.
It is a crazy feeling to need to pee but have to pass the bathroom because there is a huge group of VIPs waiting for you to come do your presentation, and you don’t see a break in your schedule for at least another 2 hours. And I do not just mean crazy as in strange. I mean crazy as in insane.
Two weeks ago I hit my limit. I’d been sick on and off for over six weeks. Two days in a row I was trying so hard to get all caught up and to not miss any deadlines that I sat in my office chair for almost 6 hours straight before I got up, raced to the bathroom, the breakroom and then back again to continue what I was doing. And three days that week I fell asleep in my car – while it was parked – because I was so exhausted, but I couldn’t go home just yet – I had more work to do. Two weeks ago I decided that drinking myself numb every night, going to bed at midnight, and then getting up at 5 and trying to be productive was no longer working for me and that something needed to change.
Last week I started my new habits by not drinking alone, going to be by 10 every night, making sure the dog got walked, and still getting some exercise for myself every day. It wasn’t five hours at the gym. There were no endorphin rushes, no sense of accomplishment. And I still felt depressed and stressed and generally unhappy. But I didn’t have a migraine. I didn’t fall asleep in my car. I was ridiculously productive. And I had enough energy that when the weekend finally rolled around I was able to work on my thesis – good work, not just a couple of paragraphs that I know I will need to either edit or totally rewrite later. That was enough reward for me to decide to try to do it again this week. No drinking alone, no sleeping meds, a little exercise every day, and going to bed early.
I’m determined to not let myself be derailed again. I want this new pattern to become an addiction. I want to need to not drink during the week and to go to bed early and to get my exercise. And I want to learn to step away from work a bit too. I want to stop working through lunch and sitting for three and four and five hours straight. I want some perspective and some balance. And if I have to drop some of the smaller balls at my job to make that happen, then gravity can do its thing. I doubt they will fire me for it.
And if they did, well, it isn’t my dream job anyway. I mean, it is ok now, and I could like it if things were a little different. But for now, it is what it is.
A paycheck.
It’s time to make some new habits.
Like the one now, where I step away from the computer and go practice my guitar for a while.
SecondHand Saint 