My Permanent Accessory

Why is it that the struggle with words at work is a totally different experience than the struggle with words in my own writing? When I’m struggling with words in my own writing, I find myself enjoying the struggle. I’m thankful that it’s something I get to struggle with at all. At work, though, I get frustrated with the struggle. I grow apathetic and pessimistic and I drive myself crazy. I’m lucky if I can get a page a day out of myself and whatever I do pump out, I’m usually disgusted with it the next day.

The worst part is that the frustration carries over into the rest of my life. Today I worked through the day with a tremendous soreness and tightness in my neck. Whatever way I turned my head, it produced wince-inducing pain. Put that together with post-lunch heartburn of the "I think I’m having a heart attack" variety and you have the recipe for a frustrating evening.

I really do feel like I’m being drained of everything that I am some days. Some days I feel as though it’s only a matter of time before I collapse. What I don’t understand is what started this downward spiral and what it is, day-to-day, that’s pushing me further down the hole. I mean, we know I don’t like my job but I’m not the only one whose dissatisfied on that front. And not everybody reacts the way I am. Is there an explanation for it?

See, I think that eight months of unemployment spoiled me. I saw what it was like to be free of the constraints of the nine-to-five and, even though I didn’t use the time I had as well as I could, I really saw the potential for a new, better life. I’ve seen that potential now and it’s impossible to deny that I was happier then, in general.

Now, someone go dig up an entry from the unemployment year where I whined about how much happier I was with a job.  The next person to post a comment will be the six-hundreth comment.