eastowners

Recently, it seems, I’m found defending my definition of myself an awful lot.  It’s actually quite stressful because my definition used to be pretty simple; a musician who really enjoyed the companionship of friends and potential lifemates.  That morphed into a musician who really enjoyed the companionship of a smaller and smaller group of friends, and his new wife.

After that, we did what most do and had a child.  Now my definition was less and less musician and more dad and career-man, with a new responsibility; to keep food in the mouth of an innocent and to protect her from the horrible tragedy that can accompany the lives of those of us who are more reckless, or unfortunate.

Somehow, despite my protests, it re-defined me.

I lost touch with close companions that fed the creative side of me that I swore up and down I’d never let loose of.  My focus became more and more of self-preservation, perseverance, and shining above all others in my career.  Being mediocre has never been part of anything I am.  I’d rather not participate than not shine.  In six years, I shot to the top of the department and over doubled my salary.  Failure has never been part of my vocabulary.

Still not satisfied, feeling over-worked, unappreciated, and broken due to several very sour experiences at work, a massive stress began to mount.  I hid in online games.  I did other things to distract me from the overall distress that I felt every day.  I did nothing creative, nothing liberating.  It began to kill my relationships with people.  Even in online games, which promote teamwork and collaboration, I was a recluse.

Nothing worked and I ceded defeat to the stress, giving up on most everything that I’ve ever enjoyed in life.  I became severely depressed and angry.

After five years of the this re-definition of me and the ensuing stress, I landed in a nice sterile hospital bed, pissing into a jug and unable to walk for several days.  After a spinal tap, an MRI, and a chest ultrasound, it was found that I simply have out-of-control blood pressure that has caused a bit of a minor heart issue.  Likely most of this is due to stress.

I don’t know how close I was to death, but close enough to contemplate it in a very real and, to me, profound way.  I thought I may have been re-defined again.

Ten years of almost weekly migraines have disappeared after going on blood pressure meds.  I haven’t had a headache since the spinal headache in the hospital a year and a half ago.  Things were starting to look up at work.  Projects were coming in and I had a lot to do.  I re-focused, re-evaluated, and continued on my previous rampage of project-based perseverance.  I focused on continuing my musical education by purchasing new instruments, and practicing relentlessly.

Then it all ended.  Our scheduled raises were suddenly cut in half and our department’s budget came under a microscope, all the while demanding that we not only maintain the services we offer today, but that we expand them for less money.

Unreasonable expectations and incompatible desires have now become the soup du jour at work.  The pecking order is in chaos.  People submitting expense reports while traveling for the company are being harassed (and denied compensation) over tips.  People everywhere are turning each other in for minor violations of company policy that have gone on as a matter of course for years.

The relaxed, caring culture that once inhabited this company has turned into a stark example of how a company culture should not be.  And I feel those familiar feelings of stress and rage coming back.

It’s debilitating and demotivating to feel that you are destined for failure despite your best intentions.  I have the least amount of brewing projects that I have had since I came here.  I can easily say that I had more projects one month after starting than I have now.  Nothing new is coming in.  I’m bored and the environment isn’t making anything easy, interesting, or truly challenging.

These are people problems that are unsolvable from where I sit, but I am, to an extent, held responsible for not being able to deliver the fantasies of management.  Failing makes me and my team look bad, even if the failure is outside of our control.  It’s maddening.

As quickly as my rage and dissatisfaction was forced from me by my hospital visit, it had returned.   This time, I did recognize it, and tried to suppress it and continue on my way, but the more I held it in, the more the stress built.

Almost to my breaking point, on a night like any other, hanging out at my folks’, I had a near explosion, which prompted an impromptu blood-pressure-intervention.  It had a similar, but in my opinion, more profound effect on me.  My dad said something to me that I think about every time I feel being eaten alive.

“We used to talk about ideas.  Now all you do is complain.”

That simple statement defined me at that moment.   There it was.  This is what I had become, a broken ghost of my former self.   I think those words presented a stark reality that, to me, is worse than death.  I’ve become the type of person I had previously passionately railed against.  My spirit had become a slave.  And it was my fault.

So here I am, at the end of it all, going through another re-definition.  This time, a sweet and humble one; rediscovering my roots in art and music, and the joy of simply being able to take another breath.  I’m finding positive people to surround myself with.  It’s a slow process, but one I’m committed to.

In this endeavor, I am not destined to fail unless I allow for my spirit to be re-enslaved.  I have a lot of re-defining to do, but in the end, I hope to recapture that person who talked about ideas and didn’t just complain.