Last week, someone asked me what I do for a living. I braced myself and said, “I write for a consulting firm.”
I sensed their stilted reaction and backpedaled. “I’m just glad I get paid to write.” They cleared their throat.
“I knew someone with a 9 to 5 once.”
He knew someone with a 9 to 5 once? I withheld a laugh. He continued.
“Now she works odd jobs, dances on tables. She tells me she’s the happiest she’s ever been.”
I nodded. The conversation moved on.
But I didn’t move on. That exchange was enough. All the therapy, all the recovery meetings, all the memoir writing and journaling–it was all zapped from my consciousness. I was suddenly back where I started. An old part of me woke from its slumber. You are pathetic.
Later, I turned to my husband, who used to work in the movies, but now writes software. “My work is uninteresting and morally questionable.”
He didn’t flinch. “So is mine. But it’s what you do outside of work that really matters.”
That’s how I’ve been thinking about it. I tell myself that making a living is not optional and just getting by isn’t something to romanticize. I am trying to avoid what I saw my mother deal with–nights bent over unpaid bills.
On this night, though, that reasoning didn’t cut it. The old voice was in charge. I’m sad at what you’ve become.
I pulled away from my husband as the voice continued its monologue, the one I’ve heard many times before. There are two ways to live. You can be the spirited creative or the brain-dead worker.
According to the voice, as a practical, 9 to 5 person, I should feel dead inside. But as I listened, I thought–I feel quite content, except this voice keeps telling me I’m in danger. Should I trust that voice? I wondered.
My therapist would say, “That voice is a remnant of your parents.”
My mom grew up poor. Her single mother was a local actress who lived by the musical Gypsy: “Some people sit on their butts; Got the dream, yeah, but not the guts. That's living for some people, For some hum-drum people.” And my dad is a handyman who drinks and draws seascapes to get through the day.
“They use child logic,” my therapist tells me. “That is not your story.”
So, I can have a stable lifestyle without being dead inside. I turned the notion around in my mind, a notion I thought I had a handle on but now couldn’t quite grasp. I heard the voice mocking my therapist—It’s okay to be a happy little worker. Now that the voice had an in, it looked for other rocks to flip over, other ways to disrupt the order I’ve created over the years. You’re a happy little worker and a happy little wife.
It’s referring to a few years ago when my husband and I went to couples therapy. I went in thinking the therapist would fix him. That’s not what happened.
Instead, we uncovered the little girl in my mind that kept saying YOU DON'T LOVE ME ENOUGH. The therapist said, “If you feel lonely, hold off from looking to your husband to fix it. You must provide that love to yourself.”
That brought me a lot of peace. It helped me understand what it meant to be my own inner loving parent.
As I sat by myself, the voice continued to nag, Why did you have to learn to need less and your husband got to stay the same?
But I had the strength, in this instance, to reject the voice. I could hear its desperation. I knew it was trying to protect me but that it was mistaken. Having a me vs. him mentality with my husband doesn't lead anywhere good.
I wondered, Can I learn the same lesson with regard to how I make a living?
I’ve already started to, I thought. I’ve been slipping into a new lifestyle, one where I have my job and I write on the side sometimes. Am I still worthy if I don’t create? It hurt to say it, but the answer was yes.
When that person asked me what I did for a living, it wasn’t the fact of my job that incensed the old voice, I realized, but my new ease with that being all I do. It was frightening to come across someone who still subscribes to the story I’ve worked so hard to exorcize, and to find myself in such a different place from them, and therefore my parents.
When I first got my job, the voice said You won’t be able to stomach it. But I surprised myself. I felt like a painter painting ads on the sides of buildings. The content wasn’t deeply meaningful, but I felt joy in the brushstrokes.
The old voice again. That’s sad. You should want more, but you are unwilling to put yourself through the discomfort of creativity. Just like your husband gave up on the movies.
The next day, when I came across an interview with an actress who said, “I’ll always feel like I need to prove something. In some ways, it’s good for me because I’ll just always keep pushing myself,” the voice jumped on it. Your therapist has undone your drive to prove yourself.
My therapist, and my recovery program, do tell me to be gentle with myself. The old voice says be careful, gentleness can slip into complacency, but I know deep down that it’s a specific quality of gentleness I’m after. It’s a wise, discerning voice that says, I love you.
Maybe I've lost my drive because I feel a glimpse of love for myself and don’t yet know what it feels like to create from that place. Maybe, by starting to let go, I’m on my way.
Olivia M