I've always been a workaholic and an overachiever. It was something my dad playfully teased me about in middle school, just as it's something my husband playfully teases me about now.
I'm used to working 80 hours a week. Pouring over projects and novels until a step above perfect. Until they're impossible. That's who I am. I am very much defined by the work I do and the efforts I put in.
However, lately I have found that there is another kind of stress that comes from work. Something I have never encountered. It's the stress of doubt. Of being unsure that what you're working to build up is something that...deserves your dedication. It's the kind of doubt that sits in your stomach and forms into a bubbling, churning vomit. That makes itself known in headaches and sleepwalking.
A sickness of soul.
That's exactly it. A disappointment that goes so deep it's a jagged knife, sinking into skin, cracking your bones--scraping away the marrow. I've always taken little bits of myself and stored it in my work. Was always proud to take those projects and the environment created by those projects and wrap them up inside of me. I absorbed life-lessons, knowledge, and fundamental concepts from these exchanges.
And now I feel as if the bits and pieces I'm taking back into myself are eating away my love for things I've always haf. Always needed. Unstable and deceptive. Malicious. Detrimental and blind.