Happiness and the Inverse Relationship
When I think back on my mid twenties, I remember being bitchy, overworked, and totally disillusioned. The hope and optimism I had coming out of college was bitch-slapped out of me after my first feeble attempt at moving to the city and trying to find a job, and certainly didn’t return after a stint of teaching (i.e. “giving back”) or in corporate education (i.e. “giving back + $$”) or in an urban school district (i.e. “if the kids don’t shoot you, the superintendent will make you shoot yourself”). But it wasn’t all dark and dismal. Ok, it was, but add to dark and dismal a few martinis, and I could be the life of the party. I was the gal co-workers could rely on for shit-talking and long lunches, the chick that had no problem discussing how she would fuck the VP of Finance during company meetings, the first lady of blacking out and doing karaoke at company functions. Sure, when I was alone, I was terribly depressed and anxious all the time, but all that could be channeled into creating this borderline self-destructive persona that was fun and liked.
But then it got old, and I got a therapist. In what could be described as my late-mid-twenties, I embarked on a personal development journey to destination: happiness. I started therapy; I worked out more; I cut back on hours at work; I applied to grad school; I wrote more. I learned a lot about myself during this time, like why I hated men and how to anticipate my intoxicated anxiety attacks and subsequent breakdowns. The sublime tension between my old self and my new recognition was fuel for much of the work I did.
Currently, my personal development cruise ship is docked as I approach my 29th birthday. The voyage isn’t over, but I’m trying to test out being on solid ground. I wrapped up therapy, finished grad school, added yoga to my workout ritual, and tried to start a business with my husband. I am happy, I am calm, I am . . . vacant. When catching up with friends, I have nothing to say. I just smile absently and say things are good. I have nothing to write about. Nothing pisses me off. What is there to talk about when you work from home and get to workout midday and eat well and sleep in. Fucking nothing, for weeks at a time. I know, boo-hoo, poor me. But the thing is I’m afraid that my bitchiness and anger was my life force, and now that it’s gone I am an empty shell, a well-balance, peaceful empty shell. For me, there is an inverse relationship between happiness and productivity.
Sick of Myself
I am annoying the shit out of myself today. The last 4 days, really. I totally haven’t done anything productive, except make Kris a video for his birthday, which, while fun and creative, doesn’t necessarily count as work. The problem, I think, is that it’s so easy to get stuck in my own head while working from home. In an office, I was always pleasantly distracted by everyone else’s shortcomings, inefficiencies, moronic ideas, and bad days. Now I have nothing to observe but my own flaws, and they are not pretty.
The other day, another distracted day in fact, I closed my eyes at my desk and asked myself how I imagined spending my day if I considered myself “successful”. The answer was writing. Of course, it has always been writing. I wrote my first poem at age five. I only remember the last line: “There are no more bubbles except just for me/how lucky, how lucky, how lucky can I be.” I mean, genius. Obviously a riveting piece on bubbles. Years later, I promptly abandoned the whole writing dream when I wasn’t immediately given a job as a magazine editor out of college. Remember how pleasant the early 20s were? I got a forward once when I was 24 or whatever about the “quarter life” crisis. Oh, how it resonated with me. How gay. So I did what all frustrated writers do – I became an English teacher. And then I did what all people who hate kids do – I worked in the corporate sector. And then I did what all people who hate working in the corporate sector do – I went to work in non-profits. And then I did what all people who have no idea what the fuck they are doing with their lives do – I applied to grad school.
So, five years, several different career attempts and a master’s degree later, I find the bulk of the work I do for our startup venture is writing. Which should be thrilling, invigorating, inspiring even. I feel like I should wake in the morning and kiss the earth that I can spend the day writing, be it on subjects I have varying degrees of expertise with. No matter. I can write. No more meetings. No busy work. No asinine coworkers. Just me, my computer, and my words.
What was that last part? Oh, the words. Fuck, that part sucks. Because I did not give myself the chance to pursue this dream earlier, I am totally unprepared for what to do when I get stuck. What to do when I have nothing to say. What to do when the writing sucks, or is just so-so. So I spent this morning wishing I had a meeting to go, so I could pretend to be doing work. Pretend to be present, productive. But while it’s pretty easy to fake it in an office, it is hard to lie to yourself at home. When the same word count is on the document at the end of the day.
I either need a magic productivity pill or the incredible ability to lie to myself. Fast.
It’s Draft-y
Given the free time I have now to curl up on the couch and write on these chilly winter days, one would think I’d be in a joyous prolific state. It’s just not so. I have been writing more regularly, only to have several drafts of pieces that are so incoherent and contradictory I’m afraid to post them on this blog that no one reads. I don’t know how to reconcile the inconsistencies in the pieces, and I don’t have anything else to write about. I don’t know what to do.
Ok, maybe I have a few ideas. Like Snoop Dogg’s Fatherhood probably shouldn’t be on in the background while I’m trying to write. And maybe I shouldn’t try to rush and finish something before the Daily Show starts. And maybe I need to get out of my house more (despite the weather) to find something to write about.
But what I’m actually afraid of is that I have nothing to write about because I’m too happy right now, too content. I’m having a hard time channeling my inner bitch, who is in fact the better writer, the one with something to say. My sated loving self writes corny poems that fail at being well-written or poignant. But the cunt in me sure knows how to write shit. Quite the catch-22 I’m in.
I’m happier lately because I’m working from home, which means starting the workday in pajamas, working out more, eating well, and having time to write. It is precisely these conditions that are making it so fucking hard for me to have anything to say. It wouldn’t exactly be riveting material to write about the joys of working from home, or why working out everyday feels good. That’s the type of shit that makes me want to puke, or at least the old me who spent time in cubicles reading pukey stuff to avoid doing actual work.
My only hope is that my husband starts to annoy the shit out of me, and then I’ll have tons of material to work with. Until then, I’ll have to settle for pieces on puppies that don’t make sense, or just give up and watch Snoop. Fashizzle.
why i blog
When I was in 9th grade, we read Joan Didion’s “Why I Write” essay in class and then had to complete our own “Why I . . .”. I return to the question of why often, and enjoy the inquiry into what I choose to do.
So the question comes up again today, as I’m trying to navigate around wordpress and check out all the features. There have been eight views of my blog. While it is likely that all of them have been me, this makes me queasy. Why the fuck did I decide to begin this process of shitty writing in a public forum? It is a struggle to write my crappy sentences when I know in the back of my mind that someone may see them.
So why a blog? I think the easiest answer is internet habits. Well before I was comfortable using the internet, I checked my email and bank account online everyday. I think I am up to four sites that I check daily: gmail, myspace (embarassing!), work email, and CNN. And now there are loads of other sites that I regularly check out. While I love to read and try to write, my offline habits are much less regular when it comes to these pasttimes. I have never really kept a journal before, except the semester that I spent in London, when I had to chronicle somewhere all the places I saw and how depressed I was. And while I’d love to be the type of person that is always carrying around a book, I don’t because I’m not good with the library system, and I’m too poor to always be buying books. When they have Netflix for books, maybe I’ll do better. Until then, I know that I now spend most of my day on the computer. And since I can’t figure out how I only have 2gb left of my 50gb storage, I decided against creating a new word doc everyday. A blog seems like a great way for me to have a place to come and write and also provides the added bonus of supporting my work in therapy getting over what other people think of me.
So that’s why I blog. Or started to, anyways. Habit and discipline have been the key things missing in my writing, so I hope this forum helps. It’s a great time to get over myself and get busy writing.
