The end result of burning the candle at both ends? Getting burned out.
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I am a self-imposed professional. I made sure I didn’t just jump on one train and go for a ride; I did a lot, I saw a lot, I kept my eyes open. I’m a veteran, a son, a brother, a college graduate, a homeowner, a boyfriend, a role model, and am happily owned by my two four-legged girls, Sasha and Ginger. There are people I know, who think they know me. But they don’t. For the longest time, I lived and tried to love to the standard that I thought was required.
At one point I co-owned a business, three times, a record label, an art gallery, and a publishing house.
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At one point I co-owned a business, three times, a record label, an art gallery, and a publishing house. It all sounds so great doesn’t it? But those weren’t my full-time jobs. I mean they were, but they couldn’t sustain our way of life so I spent 40 hours a week working yet another career. My partner at the time spent all her time investing in those ventures as well. We spent 60-80 hour weeks slaving to the dream.
Then in the midst of this carnival of shipping, receiving, emailing, producing three projects, negotiating, building and working, I somehow found time to write a novel; an 82,659 word, 257-page novel. This wasn’t one draft or two, it was six, professionally edited, and then to make sure it wasn’t a fluke, I did it again, this time an 83,050 word one. I guess I was on top of the world a little so I did what anyone would; I piled it on. I completed my Bachelor’s degree then went headlong into an 18-month blur that ended with a MBA. Now, I didn’t have a major publisher picking up every word I wrote, but I found legitimacy in someone publishing a couple of our projects; and it felt good.
What didn’t feel good was the 3-4 hours of sleep I was able to shake down. No weekends, and taking care of my now ex-wife because of constant health problems. But before you cast a stone thinking I was insensitive, she was a maniac, too. Even more so, same projects and all, but a full-time artist with 300 gallery shows, in and out of the country, etc. etc. We both were burning the candle at both ends. With a flamethrower. Set on high. 24 hours a day.
There was a time when everything seemed to go the right way, she was becoming known more and more … a little pseudo-celebrity…and I was, well, I was working. And that’s how the story goes, isn’t it? Work hard, all the time, those are the people that make it. Right? Wrong. At the literal height of work and lack of sleep my body said no more. Then I didn’t get a promotion I was banking on. All of a sudden our relationship showed the first signs of stress fractures. But it was early on, it could all be mended, I was only 32, young and full of life and myself.
But it didn’t mend well. My body continued to grow tired. “Tomorrow night, that’s when I’ll get the good sleep I need”, I always said. Write another 1,000 words then go to sleep, do this, do that, just one more, one more. And a month-long hospital stay three years later jolted me into realizing I had lost control. Of everything. I was sick, I was exhausted, my relationship was probably lost at this point, and I still worked paycheck to paycheck. So I scaled it down, I pulled back on the reins and said, “Whoa.” But I had strapped myself into a rollercoaster cranking on jet fuel and was going nowhere but faster.
I scaled it down, I pulled back on the reins and said, “Whoa.” But I had strapped myself into a rollercoaster cranking on jet fuel and was going nowhere but faster.
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Now if up to this point you think that was crazy, let’s just get totally stupid. I let the reins go, I said a preverbal “fuck it” and looked to burnout, I gave everything. And I mean everything I had, mentally, physically, financially, emotionally, and psychologically into everything I was doing. Looking back; I wanted to implode. Because I couldn’t bear not having a direction to go, especially with someone who went as far as she did as ill as she was.
By the time we called it quits, I was left with two novels with no homes, artwork on the walls that just reminded me of a past life that I let bleed me dry, a job that paid the bills, but where I had missed opportunities, missed vacations, a brother I haven’t seen in 20 years, a mortgage, alimony, a car payment and scarier still, going back to school for my Doctorate. It was a success on some level (that I still have trouble seeing) and a resounding, complete failure on others (that’s always easier to see because we’re human).
So my regret isn’t sitting at this desk just a little too late tonight working on this column and an essay question for my Philosophy class. See, I’m two days from my 7-month anniversary with my girlfriend. My Southern Belle, my green-eyed girl who took a chance on a guy that probably sounded bad and looked worse when we met. Who didn’t judge, didn’t care about yesterday and only wanted to know me for me, today. My regret is not learning to take a break when you feel you need it, but I’m still young …
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Photo: Getty
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