Working, working, working

    I stared bleary eyed at the highway stretching out before me. The burgeoning traffic hummed along at well above the posted limit of 60 mph.  It was Monday and I was exhausted, driving to work yet again after working the weekend. 

    Some days it seemed I worked all the time.  I recalled the "days off" I had over the past week.         

    Wednesday I got up early for an appointment and returned straight home.  I had promised a friend I would "rest" for the remainder of the day. Trying to rest proved to be torture. I had to will myself to sit still for more than 10 minutes.  I kept thinking of things I needed to accomplish around the house: I had packing to do, laundry, cleaning, the car needed a wash and vacuum, the list went on and on.  

     My boss texted me. I could work Thursday if I wanted. I sighed before saying no. I needed to take the car for needed maintenance. I needed to start packing.  I could do those things today and work tomorrow, but.. oh yes.....I had promised to rest. 

     Ugh! Why was this so hard!  I feel constant fatigue, body aches and headaches, yet I can't be still. To not work makes me feel guilty and anxious. Could it be I am a workaholic?
   Cnn.com posted the following quiz by Brian E. Robinson under the heading "Are you a Workaholic?"

I prefer to do most things rather than ask for help. Always

I get impatient when I have to wait for someone else or when something takes too long. Always

I always seem to be in a hurry and racing against the clock. Always

I get irritated when I am interrupted while I am in the middle of something. Often

I stay busy and keep many irons in the fire. Often

I find myself doing two or three things at one time, such as eating lunch and writing a memo while talking on the phone. Often

I over commit myself by biting off more than I can chew. Often

I dive into projects to get a head start before all the phases have been finalized. Often

I feel guilty when I am not working on something. Always

It's important that I see the concrete results of what I do. Always

I am more interested in the final result of my work than in the process. Always

Things just never seem to move fast enough or get done fast enough for me. Always

I lose my temper when things don't go my way or work out to suit me. Often

I ask the same question over again after I've already been given the answer once. Sometimes

I spend a lot of time mentally planning and thinking about future events while tuning out the here and now. Sometimes

I find myself continuing to work after my coworkers have called it quits. Sometimes

I get angry when people don't meet my standards of perfection. Often

I get upset when I am in situations where I cannot be in control. Often

I spend more time working than socializing with friends or on hobbies or leisure activities. Always

I tend to put myself under pressure from self-imposed deadlines when I work. Always

It is hard for me to relax when I'm not working. Always
I get upset with myself for making even the smallest mistake. Always

I put more thought, time and energy into my work than I do my relationships with loved ones and friends. Always

I forget, ignore or minimize celebrations such as birthdays, reunions, anniversaries or holidays.  Always

     A result between 67 and 100 points was considered highly workaholic. My score stood at 83.
  Highly workaholic? Small wonder I'm exhausted and demoralized. I'm fighting burnout already.

    How completely miserable I must be to deal with. My poor friends, my poor animals...poor me. I have no time for the things I love: piano, cooking, my friends, my animals, learning to play golf again. It was just a miserable cycle of working and sleeping.  Any leisure time at all is on a "strict schedule" so everything gets done.
  How do I stop?
  In the article "How to Stop Being a Workaholic" for wikihow edited by Daud Darseno, workaholics are encouraged to draw boundaries by limiting the amount of work (i.e. taking days off).
   "Limit the amount of time you spend working. Set aside one day of the week, such as Sunday, as a day of rest. Be strict with yourself in not working on that day. If the computer is your main work tool, try not to use the computer at all on your rest day. Set office hours for yourself, outside of which you don't allow yourself to work. For example, no work before 8 a.m. or after 7 p.m." 
  The hallmark of workaholism (perfectionism) is addressed.
   "When appropriate, limit the quality of work you aim to achieve. Don't always aim for super high quality work when it isn't necessary to achieve the purpose of the work. As Chesterton said, “If a thing is worth doing, it is worth doing badly.” Especially if that frees up time to do something else even more worthwhile." 

  Hmmm, doing a decent job versus a perfect job. Taking a whole day off? How could I ever live with the guilt of doing that?
  Additionally, suffers are encouraged to change perspective.
  "Make it a habit to periodically ask yourself, throughout the day, 'If I died in my sleep tonight, would I be happy with the way I spent my day?' "
  I considered my reality. I was dealing with a chronic illness. I suffered with significant pain in my jaw (bruxism) and neck (tension).  The constant angst of "getting everything done" made me tense and irritable. I hadn't talked to my brother in while. I hadn't walked Pansy  or seen my friends in two weeks. I was too busy to date, sleep in or even go to the doctor if necessary. Was this the life I wanted?
  The next dawned beautifully.  I lay watching the light play through the blinds. This was my day off. It was time to try something different, however agonizing and awkward it may be. As my Pathways training had challenged me: What did I really want? How would it be to be able to rest, to be emotionally tranquil?

    I squinted at the fine layer of dust sprinkled on my dresser. The  meticulous sweeper marks on the bedroom carpet had been erased by footprints. There was laundry in the dryer, needing to be folded and put away. The car still hadn't been cleaned.
    Pansy rolled over in her bed as I approached, begging for a tummy rub. I bent down and petted her a while, listening as she snorted happily.  It was a relief to not be rushed, to just enjoy the moment. 
  In Disney's "Frozen", Elsa leads a miserable life, seeking to be as others expect while hiding her true self.  Revealed, a liberated Elsa sings "Let it Go", embracing her once secret powers, finding at last a strength and happiness she never knew.

How Did I Get Here?

  In "Facing the Numbers", I calculated up my debt, detailing where some of the money had been spent. Since that day in late 2012, I have asked myself these questions: What led me to spend like that? Why did I think it was ok? Was there something behind that?  I can't completely dismiss it as only foolish stupidity spurred by the impossible ease of plastic.  Why did I do that?
  By the time I applied to borrow for my graduate school, I already had significant credit card debt.  In 2010, at age 31 (with no debt but my car and mortgage), I had poured thousands of dollars into a national beauty pageant. Yeah, that's right, thousands.
  I had set my mind to win. To do so, I needed a gorgeous dress, interview suit, fashionwear and swimsuit.  I also hired a personal trainer, make-up artist and interview coach.
Had my competitive nature led me to spend? It was only a small part.  I wanted everything to appear perfect. I coveted an impeccable swimsuit body, flawless walk and interview charm. I couldn't get a second-hand dress-someone might notice! I needed to appear not only beautiful, but incredibly successful. Not to be seen as such would be, well... embarrassing.
  Of course I had reasons for thinking this was ok.  I had never just "had fun" with my money.  Everyone has to have a time to splurge on something, right? I was expecting a large payment from the Air Force for travel expenses/allowances from my recent deployment. I told myself I was spending that money.  Deeper still, I had structured my pageant platform around an enduring emotional pain that I still carried. If I could speak about this, I could make a difference and perhaps find healing for myself. Wasn't that worth the expenditure?
  I failed to achieve my ultimate goal for which I had mortgaged myself dearly.  I did not win, finishing below the top three.  I received the Director's Choice Award for the "spirit" I displayed, but I saw myself as a miserable failure. I felt stupid, ugly and rejected. Crestfallen, I returned home.  

  I was painfully reminded of my brief foray into modeling. At age 25, after losing over 25 pounds, I had been contracted by a local modeling agency.  The major drawback to my getting jobs (I thought) was my skin. I had suffered from severe acne as a teen and bore the scars.
  "Just work on it." I was told.  I went to various plastic surgeons, undergoing painful chemical and laser peels. I never achieved perfect skin. Wow! How realistic! I had entered modeling in pursuit of glamor and status. I left a little over a year later. I had been a model but I felt hideous.
  What I did not understand was that I was seeking irrefutable evidence of my own self worth: if I could prove I was beautiful, I had value as a human being.
  How had I come to be so emotionally bankrupt? So devoid of self-love and self-worth? Each of us must face our demons but mine were many. I traced them to a series of events beginning at age seven. Over a period of two years, I was molested on multiple occasions.

  As a child, I did not understand a piece of my soul had been stolen. With the years came the realization, engulfing me with it's unspeakable pain and shame. Pain became anger, deepening into rage. I turned that rage onto the safest (and nearest) victim present-myself.
  I think as children, we do our best to make sense of an unpredictable world. If we know why something happened, it is far less frightening. When people I loved and trusted harmed me, I concluded it could only be my fault.
For the better part of 17 years, I tortured myself with bulimia and self mutilation. I mercilessly pushed myself to not just succeed, but be perfect. Receiving a "B" on a test or being criticized left me devastated, scourging myself for "being so f-ing stupid".  Sometimes, I truly hated myself.
   As an adult, I met an older man I came to trust as a father figure.  Unfortunately, I discovered too late that I had opened the door to another predator.
   Although I was successful in my career, I kept my distance from people, fearing to trust. I dated men occasionally but would quickly break it off: Men were too frightening! I was desperately lonely. My animals and food were my only companions.
   In a required class for graduate school in 2012, I met a classmate, Noel.  Cautiously, I allowed him to befriend me.
I now pursued a title in bikini competitions. I followed a rigorous diet and exercise regime. I was also spending again, dropping money on collagen and Botox injections. I won a local competition and shelled out almost $1500 to compete for a national title in Las Vegas. I finished last.
  Devastated and humiliated, I made my way through the shabby casino to my stale room. I lay there, my body aching. What was I doing? 

   The truth hit me like a bolt of lightening. I was seeking validation. I sat up in the darkness, watching the city lights flicker. I was 34 years old, awash in a sea of debt and completely miserable.  How foolish I felt, how pathetic. I texted Noel.
"This has all been a fool's errand. I came looking for self-worth."
"It's ok, Em."
"I've been so utterly stupid."
"Do you ever stop abusing yourself?"
  The tears began to fall. I was that frightened little girl again, sobbing in her pain and confusion. I just wanted to be held, to be loved by someone who gave a damn about me.  Yet I was alone, abandoned in a strange place.

   Who was I anyways? Underneath the carefully crafted exterior, what constituted the authentic Emily? I had always tried to "adjust my personality" to the situation I found myself in. I could be outgoing, reserved, funny or stoic at will. What did I honestly feel? I didn't know. I was floating through life in numbness and detachment.
  For a graduation present, Noel had paid my tuition to the Weekend, the first of the Core Trainings offered by Pathways, a non-profit organization in Irving, TX. The Pathways curriculum is designed to increase emotional intelligence, and its trainees are challenged to critically inventory their lives, habits and relationships.
    Skeptical and defensive, I was confounded by a simple question: what do you want?. Money, beauty, respect, right? No. These answers were all rejected. To know, I had to feel again. I needed to unlock my poor broken heart I had hidden for so long. I had to acknowledge what I pretended didn't exist: the pain, the shame, the rage. Only then could I truthfully answer. I wanted peace. I wanted to feel worthy. I wanted to love me.
    It has been a very long, hard road that still winds before me. I see now that my debt was only a symptom. I was trying to fill the hole in my heart.
In George Eliot's classic tale, Silas Marner is cruelly betrayed by a trusted friend. Embittered, he exiles himself to a distance village. Silas lives as a recluse, caring for nothing except a collection of gold coins hidden beneath the cottage floor. One day his money is stolen. In his feverish search, Silas instead finds an abandoned child. He raises her as his own, discovering with her innocent love the lasting peace of forgiveness.

Psalm 147:3 He heals the broken hearted and binds up their wound.