What I Do is What I Am. Does That Make Me Sick?

I've been caught with my DVR full, with my TV-watching routine thrown into chaos by a wacked-out schedule and, as you'll see, a bit of hardcore priority-realignment. I'm delving into the personal side for this entry, simply because it does me good to work out all 80-gajillion thoughts in my head via this format. I'm publishing it because the insecure part of my brain wants to know that someone else has experienced the same sense of "I am unmoored."

When I cast myself adrift from my radio career two years ago I anticipated a brief tussle with soul searching and wage-slavery before my natural ability, verve, and 15 years of industry connections had me once again secured to a full-time gig with unlimited possibilities for ascendance.

Ahem.

Today I find myself torn limb from limb and beaten with the bloody stumps of my own introspection (only-child selfishness plus lack of challenging work equals Triple Strength Ennui.) And while my natural ability makes me an excellent server (see: wage-slavery,) my verve is limpid and my connections have all been fired.

I chose a profession at 19, radio broadcasting, for which my genetic inclination to talk your face off was perfectly suited. I liked attention, I liked all aspects of the entertainment field, and being a girl with a brain and a naughty streak won me a fair bit of favor. So I stuck with it. I interned in my hometown, transferred to a university, and set out to conquer the universe with my BA.

I did alright.

But humans' needs change, they adapt to new circumstances, to new lovers or relationships, to emotional and physical demands.  At 19 my question was "what do I want from the world?" At 34 it's "how do I want to live this life?" Blame it on increased acquaintance with the brevity of our mortal span. That's got something to do with it. The special flavor of cynicism that lives in the heart of media types, soon to kill the last of my idealism. That too. The ridiculous pace of a media news cycle, whipped to a churning bloodbath by the immediacy of the Internet, wreaking havoc on my already naturally stressed-out brain. Double check. Add in the fact that entire swaths of talented and experienced people are fired in my chosen industry for nothing more than a station change or a whim, and a crisis of faith was inevitable.

Banksy art in Chinatown. He probably doesn't have career issues.

Once you've been told you're good at something, and you work long enough and consistently enough that you do become good at that thing, it's counter-intuitive to kick it all to the curb. The doubt and panic that that accompanies most major adult decisions (am I making the right choice or the easy one? Am I being rational? Will I end up homeless?) is compounded by self-doubt (what if this is ALL I'm good at?).

I can't believe that. I can't curl up and cry because my starter career may have come to a close. I have (hopefully) 40 years of work ahead of me, why did I think I could do one thing for a half a century?  I must believe that I can be good at anything I work hard at, that my brain isn't mush, that my quest for knowledge, attention to detail and diverse areas of interest can be translated into a thousand occupational languages. It's terrifying, the whole Square One-ness of it all, the sensation that I'm willingly reverse-piking off a jagged cliff. Forget starting a new chapter -- this is throwing out the entire edited manuscript and writing the book over from the dog's point-of-view.

But I've had a couple of epiphanies in the last week--that's how it goes with me, I unlock one inner truth and a week later it's a bigger piece of insight coming to me in a flash while I'm putting my makeup on or feeding the cats--and I think I've got the beginning of an inkling of what my issue is. It's been about trying to distill the anxiety and frustration and stagnancy I've been feeling into a single, clear, desire. One thing, any thing, that I want for my working life moving forward.

I want to make people feel good about themselves, and I want to acquire a skill. A real skill, not one like talking or writing some stuff that no one will pay for. A skill that could be of use should a zombie apocalypse occur. I'd like to be able to say I positively affected change in in people's lives, no matter how minutely. And I want to do it ethically, and with passion. And no cubicle.

So I've distilled the angst. I've stated a desire. I've got an iron I may think about putting in the fire. A direction I could go that might lead me to threshold of the next 40 years. I have to wrestle my fear. Time to prove I'm as smart as I think I am.