The day before I went to New York (September 13) my world unraveled. Before, the incident, I wrote this:
“I wish my pen could write as fast as my my mind. So many thoughts. I penned this in my mind as I walked back to my car, blanketed in sand. My long tie-die dress getting caught in between my steps. I felt hippie glamorous should there be such a thing. So blessed that this stroll is a part of my now life- albeit its permanence as secure as a lone leaf’s place on a windy sidewalk.”
Two hours later, the first time in my career where my professionalism had been directly attacked. A letter my boss forwarded me contained the following, “A person with this title is expected to be professional & prompt in their communications. All my dealings with Attainingme to date have been marginal at best. She is a poor communicator for someone assigned this responsibility by the . . .” WHOA! I failed to read the entirety of the email. I could not. I spent the evening hiding from the friendships I was forming, crying, and formulating an email to my boss. I will not get into the sordid details that prompted this BROKER, yes a measly broker, to write this email about me, but upon receiving the email I took it to heart, felt as if I had dropped the ball. However, as I structured an email, recanting the facts, I regained confidence in my actions. I did however, decide that I would pour myself into work.
I left for NY the next morning. Aware that again, NY and workaholic were synonymous. I would be leaving the balance provided by this island and entering a whirlwind of to-do’s. I was overwhelmed, but had made the decision to work and do whatever it would take to juggle more than is humanly possible. The week, became one of anxiety, my face hollow, my skin gaunt, my nerves tense. Social time, barely existent. The TV a quiet reprieve, my most-sought source of relaxation. The first time in my life, it provided an ability to shut off for an hour. Typically, my mind too hyperactive to become engrossed in the tube, yet when my juice was beyond depleted, it more than sufficed. (Perhaps also soothing as I have spent the last month and all of my time on the island without a tv, in an empty apartment.)
My decision to become a professional juggler was not feasible. I was drowning in the attempt. On Friday, I sat with wet eyes as appeasing the BROKER was amounting to ten aggregate hours of proforma and presentation work as my phone rang continuously, a reminder as to what was needed to do to actually obtain the purpose of my job. A job that is based on achieving financing, at a time when the world is upside-down, a job that receives an A or an F, the effort, irrelevant. Job security, what’s that . . .
Aware that few can claim job security in these times, however, my job and my life, intertwined. My island, my new relationships, my balance . . . I questioned walking away for the first time. If so, I promised I would change industries completely. My thoughts from this moment in the previous post.