It's just my nineteenth nervous breakdown...
Damn. I'm supposed to be updating to preserve the pre-move for prosperity. So, how do I feel about my upcoming journey?
In a word: Overwhelmed.
In another word: Terrified.
But good terrified, you know? Like the kind of terrified I imagine skydivers get right before they jump. Of course, you'll never catch me jumping out of a perfectly good airplane, so I wouldn't know.
And also, if I'm being honest, bad terrified. White-knuckle-what-the-hell-am-I-doing terrified. But I try to take the bad terrified in stride. I assume it's as to be expected. You don't spend years in therapy without learning at least a little self-awareness and how to deal with the flight response.
Today marks my first full day of temporary unemployment. And I still had to set the alarm! There remains much to be done. I know it will get done because it has to get done and that knowledge sustains me. Partially, at least. And then there are moments, like Sunday morning, where I have panic attacks because it's too much and I'm all alone and I can't do everything by myself. And then I stop and realize that I haven't eaten in, oh, 24 hours or so and that's probably the contributing factor to, if not the source of, my breakdown. It's amazing how much the Crispy Chicken Salad from McDonalds can cure what ails ye. Damn blood sugar.
Today also marked my departure from a career judged in six minute increments that are meant to add up to thousands of yearly hours. Damn, that feels good. Who knows - maybe I'll return to law firm life eventually. But for the next two plus years I can revel in a billable-hours-free environment and finally experience that 8-9 hour workday all my friends keep talking about.
Judging from today, I will flounder and drown under the weight of all my free time.
My goal in making this transition was to pare down my collection of "stuff" accumulated, seemingly, for the sole purpose of having stuff. Much of the weekend was spent sorting through and weeding out the Clothes Of Sizes Long Since Past, most of which are housed in what I like to call the Closet of Broken Dreams. Why do we hang on to these things? Lord only knows. Part of it is aspirational - that great longing to return to the slender greatness of youth, painted with a revisionist's view that conveniently ignores the fact that maintaining a size 6, even at age 20, was a full time job. Part of it, I think, is just that American need to accumulate shit. At any rate, multiple trash bags were filled with clothing long past its prime. Additional bags were filled with clothing suitable for donation. Still more items were sent for cleaning and ultimate donation to Dress For Success. And yet, after all that paring down, I'm left with a dizzying array of clothing that both (a) fits; and (b) didn't go out of style around the time Kurt Cobain met his ultimate demise. Which should tell you all you need to know about my spending habits.
On the docket tomorrow: Sorting through the collection of papers and mail, much unopened, that has been moved, in the same unopened box, three times.
In a word: Overwhelmed.
In another word: Terrified.
But good terrified, you know? Like the kind of terrified I imagine skydivers get right before they jump. Of course, you'll never catch me jumping out of a perfectly good airplane, so I wouldn't know.
And also, if I'm being honest, bad terrified. White-knuckle-what-the-hell-am-I-doing terrified. But I try to take the bad terrified in stride. I assume it's as to be expected. You don't spend years in therapy without learning at least a little self-awareness and how to deal with the flight response.
Today marks my first full day of temporary unemployment. And I still had to set the alarm! There remains much to be done. I know it will get done because it has to get done and that knowledge sustains me. Partially, at least. And then there are moments, like Sunday morning, where I have panic attacks because it's too much and I'm all alone and I can't do everything by myself. And then I stop and realize that I haven't eaten in, oh, 24 hours or so and that's probably the contributing factor to, if not the source of, my breakdown. It's amazing how much the Crispy Chicken Salad from McDonalds can cure what ails ye. Damn blood sugar.
Today also marked my departure from a career judged in six minute increments that are meant to add up to thousands of yearly hours. Damn, that feels good. Who knows - maybe I'll return to law firm life eventually. But for the next two plus years I can revel in a billable-hours-free environment and finally experience that 8-9 hour workday all my friends keep talking about.
Judging from today, I will flounder and drown under the weight of all my free time.
My goal in making this transition was to pare down my collection of "stuff" accumulated, seemingly, for the sole purpose of having stuff. Much of the weekend was spent sorting through and weeding out the Clothes Of Sizes Long Since Past, most of which are housed in what I like to call the Closet of Broken Dreams. Why do we hang on to these things? Lord only knows. Part of it is aspirational - that great longing to return to the slender greatness of youth, painted with a revisionist's view that conveniently ignores the fact that maintaining a size 6, even at age 20, was a full time job. Part of it, I think, is just that American need to accumulate shit. At any rate, multiple trash bags were filled with clothing long past its prime. Additional bags were filled with clothing suitable for donation. Still more items were sent for cleaning and ultimate donation to Dress For Success. And yet, after all that paring down, I'm left with a dizzying array of clothing that both (a) fits; and (b) didn't go out of style around the time Kurt Cobain met his ultimate demise. Which should tell you all you need to know about my spending habits.
On the docket tomorrow: Sorting through the collection of papers and mail, much unopened, that has been moved, in the same unopened box, three times.
posted by E. at
8:47 PM
1 Comments:
I couldn't believe how many bags of clothes went into the dePaul bin back in December. Especially given the big purge I'd had two years before when I last moved, and the three boxes of 'i have a dream' clothes mailed here. When in the hell did I buy all those clothes?? It's awful, having to face the fact you're a packrat, and immediately kick the habit.
oda
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home