It’s not narcotics and it’s not alcohol.
I love being a writer. Good, bad, average, excellent, creative, insane or exaggerated. My writing style and assignments vary but I do what I love. But it’s not my profession that I am referring to. I have recently discovered that my drug for survival is a day job.
It’s that I have to wake up to make a difference somewhere. I have to push myself and work towards a timeline. I have to put up with good, bad and ugly people. Most of all, I have to rediscover my freedom every day.
There is a kick there.
I get high on the fact that I get things done. I feel fulfilled by being an effective team-mate. I get lost in my workplace, however terrible it might be. It does me good mostly but many times I am in the wrong place, but it’s still right. I learn and move on. Mostly disappointed with the knowledge that I can’t inspire change everywhere.
It’s been 2 months of being out of a regular work life and it’s been a decade since I started contributing to the world with my skills. And I haven’t been this depressed.
You won’t find me sad, you won’t find me unoccupied. Heck, I learn & play the violin, J’apprends le français (I’m learning french) and I run, do yoga or cycle up wherever I can. In many ways, am doing good to myself.
But my withdrawal symptoms cannot be ignored. I am irritable, aloof & I doubt others. If not for my partner, I probably would have withdrawn to a dark shell by now. I get tempted to take up great job offers even though they are big roadblocks to my plans. I have resisted saying ‘yes’. I have pushed myself to say ‘I won’t do’.
I know I will cope up, I will get there and I will be out of this fancy world of performance, productivity and association. But I don’t know if I would like it there, out of the prison.
Oh Monday, I miss your blues.