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Confession
thejanechord
Diaryland
notifylist.com
2003-05-19
3:09 p.m.
Last week, I interviewed for a promotion within my office. If I were to get the promotion, it would be a seriously big deal. That’s why I know it’s highly unlikely. I also know that even though I interviewed wonderfully and everybody that interviewed me said that I’d be great, the possibility that I’ll be given the job is so unlikely that I’m sure I’m wasting my time just thinking about it.
But I can’t stop.
Twice in the past two weeks, my phone has rung here at work and I picked it up to hear the Human Resources person asking me to come down to her office so we could talk in private. Both times, it was good news. First, I was offered the interview. Then, I was offered a second interview with a more important person. Now, I’m sitting at my desk all day, jumping each time the phone rings, hoping it’s more good news from her, even though I’m desperately trying to keep myself from getting my hopes up.
The whole time I was in school, I was engaged in trying to make myself a better performer. Everything I did was in an attempt to improve my ability to perform well in front of large audiences, and, each time, I got a major fucking adrenaline rush out of it. And even though the adrenaline rush was enough to make me shake and turn bright red, I still enjoyed it. Even though it was a horrific experience of absolutely maddening pain and frustratingly piercing displeasure, I came to crave it. I suppose that’s the whole reason anyone likes to perform.
But those people don’t have anxiety disorders.
After graduating, it became painfully obvious that I would no longer be able to continue performing simply by virtue of the fact that my anxiety had begun to cripple me. It wasn’t that I could no longer get up onstage and perform well; it was that I could no longer get up onstage and perform at ALL. My anxiety grew so strong that it overwhelmed the sensations one needs to be able to feel when singing.
So fuck me.
Now I’m left in a place where I can no longer do what it is I wanted to do with my life. I never wanted to do anything other than sing. Music was my life. Now that I’ve had a teacher who didn’t know how to teach and I’ve developed a disease that doesn’t have a cure, I can no longer do the only thing I ever wanted to do. So I make things up to try and counteract the crippling depression. I go to the doctor far too frequently for drugs I don’t want to take because my life would be absolutely, horrifyingly, miserably unendurable it I had to live in constant recognition of the fact that everything I ever wanted has been destroyed.
And I’ve gotten pretty good at it.
After several years of trying to convince myself that things aren’t really as bad as they seem, I have made great strides in learning how to deceive myself. I have made great progress in learning how to create meaning in a meaningless existence simply because everyone else tells you that’s what you need to do. And I’ve actually settled into a nine-to-five job where I can live out my life in constant anguish for the sake of the people who say that’s what I should be doing. Thanks to the drugs, I don’t even get all that angry about it anymore.
But that doesn’t change the fact that my life has no meaning.
I have applied for this recent job in an attempt to give my life greater meaning. I am completely conflicted about whether or not I really want the job, and yet I’m stressing over it anyway. I can’t wait for the phone call that comes from HR. Whether it’s good news or bad news, I still get the opportunity to experience a little bit of anxiety for the sake of adrenaline. Interviewing is all I have left of the audition process. I can’t sing because of life’s miserable little twists, so I’ll continue to interview for positions that are out of my reach just for the kicks of going through the pain and frustration of anticipation and regret. And I’ll jump every time the phone rings because I’m awaiting news that will change my life.
At least I’m feeling something.
