This morning I woke up in a state of panic almost bordering on full-out fear.
Enough fear to produce a small anxiety attack (which has only happened one other time in my life) and required me to count backward from one hundred.
There’s a lot of scary things going on, not just in my life, but the entire freaking world right now.
And no, I’m not hopping on the Covid-19 bandwagon and dedicating a couple of hundred (in my case maybe thousand) words to the affliction making its way around this ever so much smaller world of ours.
Although at sixty-seven, I won’t tell you the thought of me croaking from the bite of a bug too small to see, is certainly unnerving.
I suppose my jitters come from the fact traditionally, my timing always seems to suck. Here are a few examples for you all.
*I decided to cash in my 401K. In a volatile stock market that is crashing by the minute.
*I made the decision to sell off all my shares of stock.
Did I say crashing by the minute?
*I’m going to be placed on an action plan here at work, which will preclude the opportunity to work from home. Which means exposing me to three months of chances to get bitten by the bug of sickness and potential death.
This year, actually in a couple or three months, I’ll be backing away from my soul-sucking, tedious AF job. If I’m lucky (I’m usually not) at the end of June, I’ll no longer be a project manager for an aeronautical manufacturing company.
Hopefully, I’ll live long enough to pursue the one goal in life I either avoided or has eluded me. It’s all about perspectives, folks. I guess the jury is still out on how bad I wish to beat myself up.
Regardless, when I walk away from all the mindfu*kery here, I’ll be trying to hit the ground running as a full-time writer.
And of course, I’m as nervous as a long-tailed cat trapped in a room full of rocking chairs.
Thus the mindnumbing panic attack from this morning.
My future is so unknown right now. I can’t bank on ever gaining a gig, hooking up with a client, finding a place for my short stories, my poetry, or anything else. At this point, I don’t have any content mill connections, ghostwriting opportunities, or editing gigs booked.
I got this dream of mine.
And a whole lot of nothing but uncertainty. After living the last fifteen years in a “fat cat” world, I’m now starting at the bottom rung of a ladder my writing brothers and sisters have had years to climb.
And I’m scared as sh*t I’m gonna fall and me, and the missus will have to find a way to start over again.
Me with two bum knees and her with a busted back.
Ain’t we a pair?
Truth is, my honey has more confidence in my ability to make a living than I do. Not only is she my muse, but she’s always been my best (worst) critic when it comes to my writing.
She told me at the beginning of this week, and as late as yesterday, if she had any doubts, the slightest hesitation, she would undoubtedly voice her opposition to my decision. She would have told me to suck it up and deal with the action plan and move on.
But she didn’t.
The woman has insanely put her faith in my ability as a writer, and tenacity to secure the work and make a living with my words.
Failing her would crush me.
And so I sit here and worry myself into a frazzle.
All the while, hoping my future will be a bright beacon of truly incredible advances, but fearing it might possibly be the lamp of an oncoming freight train.
As the jump-off day draws nearer, I’m sure my “tail” will probably grow longer and the rocking chairs will start to move faster.
When it finally does arrive, I’ll try to square up the old shoulders, get that chin of mine up, and walk away from ten years of my work life here and in the direction of the first day of my new one.
And try not to go completely berserk at the same time.
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