This job is making me miserable. I have got to find someone to help me figure out how to shut it down in the best way possible.
It is so much responsibility , and so little reward.
Life is too short to be miserable. And when you feel your body getting old, when your friends start disappearing-you start to realize there is no better time than now.
I am resurrecting this blog in the effort to start this train moving forward. I realize that most of what has been holding me back from making this next step is fear of the unknown. Up until now I've been looking at my potential future scenarios as either : going back to working at an office job I hate, or maintaining, and trying to improve this business. The problem is, I don't like this business enough to keep going with it, and why have I been limiting myself to only what I know? Perhaps there is something else out there for me besides just what I've known (office jobs that I hate).
All I do know now is that this business is preventing me from moving forward in every other way in my life, and the rest of my life is what I want. I want to live again. I don't know what life is out there for me, but I know I can't go on with this one.
Saturday, March 18, 2017
Once the Anxiety is Gone-- Where's the Motivation?
I'm back! And better than ever (sort of)!
The last 4 years since my last post I had gotten lost in a sea of more overwhelming work, home moves, and crippling depression. And I have arrived here. I made it through that terrible storm and am alive to write about it.
After years of trying to make it, I had finally arrived in a place in life and work where I could literally not take it anymore-- I had gone through some bad relationships, health problems, money problems, housing problems, friend problems, bouts of hiring and firing, s-- I had finally reached my breaking point. I was crying every day. I could.not.get.out.of.bed. Those old thoughts came creeping back desperately trying to help me in the only way they knew how to try to find a way out of this hell.
This downfall began with moving out of my apartment. Due to sudden and persistent construction in my apartment building (new owners had taken over and were gutting all the vacant studio units and turning them into modern 1 bedrooms-- and all the units surrounding my studio happened to be vacant) I was taxed with drilling, banging, electricity and water intermittently being turned off-- virtually every day of the week beginning at 8am. And so, with optimism and excitement in my pocket, I gave notice and left my wonderful, cute, $1000-a-month apartment in 2013. Little did I know how much had changed in the 3 years since moving into that studio. $1000/month studios were a distant memory (these new units--with the exact same bones-i.e, same sq footage, were now going for $2500) and it turns out-- after 3 years of living comfortably on my own in a great place in a pretty cool neighborhood and being 35 years old -- I was much more reluctant to choosing just any old place--and definitely not just any old roommates. Or really any roommates at all. I was too old for this. I didn't want roommates (especially not for more than what I was paying for my studio) . I was an adult, goddammit.
I quickly realized finding a new place to live in this new San Francisco of Tech Worker Dreams was not going to be an easy feat. And, so, with a heavy heart, I moved back into my parents.'
Living with my parents was a strange thing. I hadn't lived in their house since I was 18, and now--while we all get along very well and did our best to make each other comfortable-- I was most definitely living In My Parents' House, and it felt like it. It doesn't matter how old you are, what life you have outside, you will always be your parents' child. I obviously couldn't stay out late (or, God forbid, all night--something I've been known to do once or twice) without them worrying, so even though my mom tried to be cool and tell me I didn't have to check in-- I really did. If I didn't I'd be worried she was worried, if nothing else. This was in my home town of Pacifica--close enough to San Francisco to be able to go there every day--but far, far away enough to make you feel you've lost all connection to your life in it. 2 months was enough. I found an in-law out near Park Merced (convincing myself that I would like the quiet, suburban lifestyle out there) and began my One Month of the Worst Roommate Situation I have Ever had in my Entire Life. In a nutshell, the main tenant was bat-shit crazy. Passive-aggressive, bitter, creepy, psycho, I-was-having-nightmares-of-him-murdering-me-in-my-sleep-with-an-axe crazy.
I had to get out of there and left almost as soon as I had moved in--which left me, once again, with nowhere to go. Nowhere, except the only place I never thought I would go back to--my old warehouse on the corner of Natoma and 6th. Otherwise known as San Francisco's skid row. Where crackheads and piss and shit lined the sidewalks and I had to step past the guy masturbating at my front door. Where the roof leaked--OK more like dumped-- water onto our kitchen floor when it rained, where the room I would be moving into was the size of a small closet with no lighting and a small window that overlooked the elevator shaft, where my cat would not be allowed-- and yet where I had 4 old cool roommates/friends who were ready to welcome me back with open arms. My temporary solution there lasted just over a year, where I was still essentially living out of a suitcase since most of my things had been left in "storage" - a.k.a my parents'- as I continued on my search for a true home. My life there felt cramped. Invaded. I had virtually no privacy. One of the roommates was intermittently friendly and surly, making for someone like myself who can often struggle with reading people quite a tense scenario. As my home life continued there, my work life deteriorated as well. The entire operation was down to only me again, and the overwhelming pressure of maintaining the business-- ever single aspect of it-- all on my own was crushing. I was desperate . I was cooked. I was done.
After a well -intended job search, a meeting and subsequent deal with a business broker to put my business on the market, and near job change to become a drug and alcohol recovery center counselor in Sausalito, I turned around and decided to stick with my job and give it one more shot. I had begun to imagine working for someone else (I couldn't ), sitting at a desk ( I couldn't), working "normal" 9-5 hours (I couldn't)-- and it all looked pretty bad too. I thought I would try just one more time to see if I couldn't make this entrepreneurial thing work for me once and for all.
This time, I did the hiring process completely differently. I was much more prepared, and had thought out all of the steps. I had systems in place. I had rules. I had contracts. And I was determined to let go of the cat sitting visits myself once and for all, because really--I had nothing to lose at this point and everything about my sanity to save. And- miraculously- I discovered Michelle. Michelle, in so many words, saved my business and my life. She was The Perfect Employee.
Michelle saved my business, and in many ways, my life. And yet the strangest thing happened once my life began to open up again. I had No Idea what I was supposed to do with myself. The years of being driven by anxiety had led me into a space where I had no idea how to do anything without the soul-crushing pressure of it.
What else was there to do besides work or respond to the needs of my work? What did I even like to do anymore? The following year was more or less a recovery period from those previous 5 that had broken me down to the point of near non-existence. In a way, I am still trying to reclaim those things that those years has taken away.
The last 4 years since my last post I had gotten lost in a sea of more overwhelming work, home moves, and crippling depression. And I have arrived here. I made it through that terrible storm and am alive to write about it.
After years of trying to make it, I had finally arrived in a place in life and work where I could literally not take it anymore-- I had gone through some bad relationships, health problems, money problems, housing problems, friend problems, bouts of hiring and firing, s-- I had finally reached my breaking point. I was crying every day. I could.not.get.out.of.bed. Those old thoughts came creeping back desperately trying to help me in the only way they knew how to try to find a way out of this hell.
This downfall began with moving out of my apartment. Due to sudden and persistent construction in my apartment building (new owners had taken over and were gutting all the vacant studio units and turning them into modern 1 bedrooms-- and all the units surrounding my studio happened to be vacant) I was taxed with drilling, banging, electricity and water intermittently being turned off-- virtually every day of the week beginning at 8am. And so, with optimism and excitement in my pocket, I gave notice and left my wonderful, cute, $1000-a-month apartment in 2013. Little did I know how much had changed in the 3 years since moving into that studio. $1000/month studios were a distant memory (these new units--with the exact same bones-i.e, same sq footage, were now going for $2500) and it turns out-- after 3 years of living comfortably on my own in a great place in a pretty cool neighborhood and being 35 years old -- I was much more reluctant to choosing just any old place--and definitely not just any old roommates. Or really any roommates at all. I was too old for this. I didn't want roommates (especially not for more than what I was paying for my studio) . I was an adult, goddammit.
I quickly realized finding a new place to live in this new San Francisco of Tech Worker Dreams was not going to be an easy feat. And, so, with a heavy heart, I moved back into my parents.'
Living with my parents was a strange thing. I hadn't lived in their house since I was 18, and now--while we all get along very well and did our best to make each other comfortable-- I was most definitely living In My Parents' House, and it felt like it. It doesn't matter how old you are, what life you have outside, you will always be your parents' child. I obviously couldn't stay out late (or, God forbid, all night--something I've been known to do once or twice) without them worrying, so even though my mom tried to be cool and tell me I didn't have to check in-- I really did. If I didn't I'd be worried she was worried, if nothing else. This was in my home town of Pacifica--close enough to San Francisco to be able to go there every day--but far, far away enough to make you feel you've lost all connection to your life in it. 2 months was enough. I found an in-law out near Park Merced (convincing myself that I would like the quiet, suburban lifestyle out there) and began my One Month of the Worst Roommate Situation I have Ever had in my Entire Life. In a nutshell, the main tenant was bat-shit crazy. Passive-aggressive, bitter, creepy, psycho, I-was-having-nightmares-of-him-murdering-me-in-my-sleep-with-an-axe crazy.
I had to get out of there and left almost as soon as I had moved in--which left me, once again, with nowhere to go. Nowhere, except the only place I never thought I would go back to--my old warehouse on the corner of Natoma and 6th. Otherwise known as San Francisco's skid row. Where crackheads and piss and shit lined the sidewalks and I had to step past the guy masturbating at my front door. Where the roof leaked--OK more like dumped-- water onto our kitchen floor when it rained, where the room I would be moving into was the size of a small closet with no lighting and a small window that overlooked the elevator shaft, where my cat would not be allowed-- and yet where I had 4 old cool roommates/friends who were ready to welcome me back with open arms. My temporary solution there lasted just over a year, where I was still essentially living out of a suitcase since most of my things had been left in "storage" - a.k.a my parents'- as I continued on my search for a true home. My life there felt cramped. Invaded. I had virtually no privacy. One of the roommates was intermittently friendly and surly, making for someone like myself who can often struggle with reading people quite a tense scenario. As my home life continued there, my work life deteriorated as well. The entire operation was down to only me again, and the overwhelming pressure of maintaining the business-- ever single aspect of it-- all on my own was crushing. I was desperate . I was cooked. I was done.
After a well -intended job search, a meeting and subsequent deal with a business broker to put my business on the market, and near job change to become a drug and alcohol recovery center counselor in Sausalito, I turned around and decided to stick with my job and give it one more shot. I had begun to imagine working for someone else (I couldn't ), sitting at a desk ( I couldn't), working "normal" 9-5 hours (I couldn't)-- and it all looked pretty bad too. I thought I would try just one more time to see if I couldn't make this entrepreneurial thing work for me once and for all.
This time, I did the hiring process completely differently. I was much more prepared, and had thought out all of the steps. I had systems in place. I had rules. I had contracts. And I was determined to let go of the cat sitting visits myself once and for all, because really--I had nothing to lose at this point and everything about my sanity to save. And- miraculously- I discovered Michelle. Michelle, in so many words, saved my business and my life. She was The Perfect Employee.
Michelle saved my business, and in many ways, my life. And yet the strangest thing happened once my life began to open up again. I had No Idea what I was supposed to do with myself. The years of being driven by anxiety had led me into a space where I had no idea how to do anything without the soul-crushing pressure of it.
What else was there to do besides work or respond to the needs of my work? What did I even like to do anymore? The following year was more or less a recovery period from those previous 5 that had broken me down to the point of near non-existence. In a way, I am still trying to reclaim those things that those years has taken away.
Fear (or How I Am Learning to Embrace Failure)
FEAR : noun
1. : an unpleasant often strong emotion caused by anticipation or awareness of danger
and accompanied by increased autonomic activity.
2. : an instance of fear
This definition of fear comes from the online version of the Merriam-Webster Medical Dictionary. This was my favorite of all definitions particularly because of its mention of the increased activity in the autonomic system. The autonomic system is the part of the nervous system that functions mostly below the level of consciousness. This means that the systems that are more or less involuntary-- heart rate, digestion, respiratory rate, salivation, perspiration, urination, and even sexual arousal-- all get some kind of signal to change up without any of your conscious consent when good old fear kicks in. Which would explain why it's so hard to conquer it once fear takes over. Fear has a tendency to win out over all rational thought, which is what makes the emotion so terribly debilitating.
It's easy to think of things that are downright frightening. I'm afraid of flying. I know what that fear looks like. Some people are afraid of heights (me again), afraid of water (oh--that's me too), and the list goes on. But what about the more subtle fears? What about things like fear of failure-- or fear of success?
Fear of failure, vulnerability, shame... Brene Brown has made a career out of these issues and I've found her material to resonate deeply.
It's easy to think of things that are downright frightening. I'm afraid of flying. I know what that fear looks like. Some people are afraid of heights (me again), afraid of water (oh--that's me too), and the list goes on. But what about the more subtle fears? What about things like fear of failure-- or fear of success?
Fear of failure, vulnerability, shame... Brene Brown has made a career out of these issues and I've found her material to resonate deeply.
What is fear of failure? What is it, really? What is courage? Leaping into the unknown and exposing yourself for who you and you alone, are--that takes courage. Embracing failure can mean surrendering to the things that you think you must fight.
Tuesday, June 28, 2016
Creating a Monster: Raising the Thing You do not Love
Eight years ago, I conceived. Like many unplanned creations, it's difficult to pinpoint exactly when or where that moment occurred--but somewhere, in some chaotic and wild period of time filled with heartbreak and loss, self-discovery and exploration, hope and fear--a charming chance encounter breathed life into a vague and fuzzy speck of an idea that would change the course of my life forever.
The idea was born--brought into the world fresh and vulnerable, and over the years has grown into a strong and healthy entity with a voice of its own and an unfolding fate before it. My life, my time, and my money has been all about it. Everything has been done with This Thing's existence and success in mind.
Mothers know this experience and espouse the glory of their love for their children--making this otherwise unbearable burden a proud honor instead.
But I do not love my child; this creation.
Like a mother entrapped in the throes of postpartum, I begrudgingly do what I assume I must, and go through the motions of caring while the crushing weight of more and more responsibility eats away at the life of my own I used to know.
What do you do with a child you do not love? What do you do when a Thing, an Idea, a Dream, a Wish, a simple Fancy--has become more than you could have ever possibly imagined?
The idea was born--brought into the world fresh and vulnerable, and over the years has grown into a strong and healthy entity with a voice of its own and an unfolding fate before it. My life, my time, and my money has been all about it. Everything has been done with This Thing's existence and success in mind.
Mothers know this experience and espouse the glory of their love for their children--making this otherwise unbearable burden a proud honor instead.
But I do not love my child; this creation.
Like a mother entrapped in the throes of postpartum, I begrudgingly do what I assume I must, and go through the motions of caring while the crushing weight of more and more responsibility eats away at the life of my own I used to know.
What do you do with a child you do not love? What do you do when a Thing, an Idea, a Dream, a Wish, a simple Fancy--has become more than you could have ever possibly imagined?
Friday, April 13, 2012
Tax Time !
See SF SBDC's list of classes and events here.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
The Art of Saying No
Saying no is an art form. I'm a complete amateur when it comes to utilizing it. I avoid it whenever possible, and if I do happen to say it, I feel guilty afterward. I go to war with myself when I know I want to say it, but can't for fear of shirking my "obligations." I don't want people to not like me or my business. So I say yes and then proceed to be miserable and pissed off because I have, once again overextended myself and put my health and my needs second. And of course then I hate myself for putting myself in that preventable situation in the first place. Yesterday I got a request from a new client which I did not want to fulfill, since I was already feeling overwhelmed from the month's schedule. It took me 5 hours and a discussion with my therapist to finally respond with this email:
Dear xxxxxx,
Thank you for emailing me. I've gone over my calendar and realized that I regretfully
will not be able to take this on at this time. I am currently working on expanding my company to include some staff (hopefully within the next month or two), so if you are ever interested in my services in the future, please call again as I would be delighted to help you.
I do have the name of another person who does some part-time cat sitting and might be available- his name is *****, and you can reach him at *******@yahoo.com.
I am sorry I couldn't help you this time --please do check back in the future if you find yourself in need of some cat care again!
Best,
Jille
I almost did not send this. I almost, instead, agreed to meet this new client, and take on the extra bookings that it required even as my stomach churned, telling me it knew full well that this decision would only add to the stress and self-loathing that comes from going against what I know is right for me. I was very close. But instead I chose to send this email (yay me!). I haven't checked my email yet since then. I do have a fear that I will have received some response--upset with me., berating me, pleading with me--something that punishes me for saying no. But I suppose that is part of the art form--being ok with saying no is just as important as saying it. And--you know, much better than killing myself.
I've found some good resources on learning this valuable skill. Check 'em out.
http://zenhabits.net/say-no/
http://personalexcellence.co/blog/how-to-say-no/
Here's a handy, easy to refer to manifesto from http://personalexcellence.co/blog/:
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Do Something for Yourself at The Start of Every Day
You've heard it before. Taking time out for yourself is a necessary component to cope with life's everyday hurdles thrown in your path. Plenty of self-help books and gurus will tell you it's important to begin your day with some of that time. Meditate for 5 minutes every morning; write in a gratitude journal; wake up 1/2 an hour earlier to sit and enjoy the sunrise with a cup of coffee; whatever. Those things are brilliant and they actually really do work--but they're f***ing hard habits to start when you're writhing in the depths of despair and can barely get out of bed to check your email (a note on checking your email: NOT a good way to begin your day. Whether it's professional or personal, being bombarded by other people's requests and chatter does not start one's day off on the right foot. Pretty much never. Don't do it. Resist the iPhone.), let alone get out paper and pen and start writing about all the things for which you're thankful.
So my small way to make sure my day sucks a little bit less is to make sure I do that. I also know I feel great when I exercise in the morning, or do yoga, make a nice breakfast, or even write (it was in fact a huge motivator for starting this blog), but if I can stick with at least getting myself in that shower every day, it's one more simple step away from killing myself.
For me it began by taking a shower. My never-ending work week, with multiple requests to have me there at a client's home in the morning had gotten me in such a habit of getting straight out of bed-- sometimes still in my pajamas (only when I'd be driving, of course)-- hair unwashed, sleep in my eyes, no makeup and out the door to start knocking the appointments out so I could be done with it and it would be over. But it is never over. Every day, it's the same thing. Getting up without getting ready to get the work over with apparently doesn't make it go away. It comes back every day. All it accomplishes is making me feel like poo.
And then, it dawned on me. If my job has gotten so crazy and demanding that I don't even feel I have the time--but more importantly-- the reason to TAKE A SHOWER IN THE MORNING, something is terribly wrong.
So my small way to make sure my day sucks a little bit less is to make sure I do that. I also know I feel great when I exercise in the morning, or do yoga, make a nice breakfast, or even write (it was in fact a huge motivator for starting this blog), but if I can stick with at least getting myself in that shower every day, it's one more simple step away from killing myself.
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