When your boss has unrealistic expectations, but the boss is you.
In late July, I set a goal for myself that I would finish the remaining 6 chapters of my memoir manuscript in the month of August. Reason? I had put it off enough, I told myself.
I started out with the goal of writing this book in late January, wanting to get a full manuscript done in 3 months so I can go back to working a normal job. I hadn’t imagined that my freelance writing would take off and find an audience. I didn’t expect to find myself with more projects than I can manage. I feel extremely grateful, more professionally fulfilled than ever before. But between the speaking engagements, pitching freelance articles, writing and editing for Mochi Magazine, and life, my book easily slipped into the back seat.
It’s been 7 months since I first decided to become a writer and mental health advocate. “It’s time I finished this manuscript,” I told myself, “Buckle down and knock it out. Focus.”
What I hadn’t expected was the toll writing about trauma would have on me. I didn’t know I’d be facing the trauma of the abuse from my past relationship for the first time. This was more trying than the chapters about my bipolar diagnosis and manic episodes. Those issues I had prepared to write about, I had talked about them for years in my NAMI support groups. But my abusive former relationship was one I had largely repressed. It was not relevant to my current, happy life and marriage. Opening and processing this chapter of my life, the purging, completely depleted me.
I became ill physically right after I forced myself to finish the chapter. I couldn’t get out of bed for nearly a week. It was the worst flu symptoms I had ever experienced. Meanwhile, anxiety and panic mounted. I’ve lost a week. That meant I had just over 2 weeks to write 6 chapters in order to enter #pitmad, a contest to attract a literary agent, on Sept 5.
It was impossible. There would be more trauma to process in the future chapters. It felt like I was squeezing my own brain. I was becoming depressed at the idea of the failure.
I had to let up on myself and admit this goal I had set for myself is unrealistic. When I became well, I allowed myself time out to get a haircut, something I had been putting off for weeks, so I wouldn’t feel like a mess every time I looked into the mirror. I freed myself from guilt for doing tasks unrelated to my writing, for taking a walk.
I allowed myself to breathe.
#PitMad would happen again on Dec. 5th. That would be a much more realistic goal. The finished product will be one I can feel better about this way. Less rushed, more polished. I breathe easier.
Since working for myself and setting my own schedule, the assumption is I’d more relaxed than in my previous corporate management career. It has not necessarily been the case. My need to feel productive is neverending. My ambition knows no bounds. I want to prove that my decision to blow up my MBA-track, coveted, successful career (and the steady and generous paycheck) was warranted. I want to make a difference in destigmatizing mental illness with my advocacy.
It’s the same type of pressure I put on myself as a teenager approaching college, as I faced each new job, as I tackled my graduate degree.
But I should know better now. I will not sacrifice my health, neither mental and physical, for my ambitions. I breathe and give myself more time.
Photo by Robert Baker via Unsplash
