I developed an anxiety condition when I moved to San Francisco (almost) five years ago. And I don't mean, "I'd had an anxiety condition for years, and I was finally properly diagnosed." I mean I developed it, in one fell swoop. A few short months after moving to San Francisco, I found myself hyperventilating with my head between my knees as the floor slipped out from under me, and I thought, "Ah, I'm having a panic attack. Shit." Now, five years later, I'm figuring out what it was all about, which is a short way of saying that it was so goddamn obvious that it took me a little bit of emotional distance to get it.
By moving to San Francisco, I was making a conscious choice to give up two things that I deeply loved because neither of them were serving me anymore. And while I was smart enough to know that you need to quit while you're ahead, I didn't get that quitting The Path You Are On can take you a few years (and many panic attacks) to recover from.
First, I'd quit professional theatre. I remember this moment during my final months where I was delivering something to a successful Broadway producer's office. When I got there, it was a dingy tenement office decorated with a single ratty couch. I remember thinking, first, "Holy shit, I can't believe that a kid from my impoverished California hometown worked her way up to this point by 26," and then, "I have seen behind the curtain, and get me the hell out of here." So I left. It turned out that I loved independently producing theatre, but I felt like my talents were totally wasted when only twenty people (all of whom were friends who wanted you to come to their shows) came. And the level of emotional abuse and/or total boredom required to withstand working on big-deal theatre projects was something I wasn't willing to put up with. Besides, I was tired of being profoundly broke.
Second, I quit New York City. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that I've recovered from that one, or even that I think it was the best long term choice. But on some level I knew that if I was going to throw in the towel on everything I'd been working on for the last ten years, I wasn't up to starting over, again, in the hugest and hardest city in the world. I needed a break.
So, fast forward six months, and I am having my first panic attack while I try to study for a finance exam, for which I am wildly unqualified, because I promised myself that if I was leaving theatre, I was going to try something totally new. And finance, alas, is about as new as you can get.
You would expect (or I would have expected) that once we'd settled into our new city and our new life, the anxiety would have gone away. I mean, we made friends quickly, I started a blog which became a satisfying creative outlet. Yes, I was getting up at five a.m. to go to a corporate office job, but still. And when I finally stopped waking up at five a.m. to become a high powered secretary and department manager, it still didn't ease up. And when I quit my corporate gig to finally go back into creative work, it still didn't let up. At which point, I decided anxiety was just my new state of being. (And I belatedly got a little help with it. Hot tip: get help first, don't be a total moron like me.)
But what I didn't realize was that I'd always been relatively good at what I did. Yes, I gave up my star turn as a debater by not going to law school and going to conservatory theatre school instead. But I went to one of the top theatre programs in the country. I didn't f*ck around. Yes, I took some horribly low paying jobs out of college, but I co-founded a theatre company that did it's first gala at Peter Yarrow's house, and I got an theatre administration internship with one of the biggest theatre companies in New York. I did obscure artistic things, but I did them with style.
And then I quit my corporate job to write a blog. And, whatever, let's be frank. Most of the world has marginal to zero understanding of what a blog actually is. Telling people you quit your job to write a blog is a little like telling them you decided to give up your benefits to become a professional postcard writer. Everyone slowly backs away. It is not prestigious, to say the least. (At least not yet.)
But I trusted it was the right decision. In fact, I knew it was the right decision, rest of the world be damned. And some of it was an airy-fairy "it-feels-right-in-my-soul" "I'm-creating-things-I-love-this-is-the-right-direction" kind of thing, but I'm also a phenomenally practical person, and when I looked at the balance sheet I knew it made sense.
So I set out to prove myself, and it was exhausting on a soul-deep level. If you'd asked me a few months ago, I would have told you that it was exhausting proving myself to everyone in the world. Over and over and over. That it was exhausting explaining to people over and over what I did (again), and that yes I made money. And that I was writing a book, and that no I wasn't self-publishing it in my garage using a photocopier. I would have told you that it was rather exhausting doing something no one understood, after a lifetime of doing things that were obscure, but still prestigious.
But then, on book tour, I figured out I was wrong. Continue reading Anxiety & Knocking It Out Of The Park
The other day (because God loves me?) I was working at a cafe, when a group of wedding planners got in a screaming fight in front of me. The whole thing was one of the most entertaining things that's ever happened to me while working in public, since they were screaming about antiques and chandeliers, and then kept mentioning their business' name (which of course I immediately looked up... obviously). But the most fascinating part was when the screaming match turned into a yell-y discussion of how to best make your clients book all the people you want them to, even if it costs them literally boat loads of money that they don't want to spend. Awesome.
