A Breakup Letter to My Workaholism

Dear Workaholism:

You’ve been part of my life for as long as I can remember. Maybe our connection is ancestral: I come from a long line of immigrants who fled persecution to make a home in a new land. They toiled to support their families. They instilled that same work ethic in my parents who worked hard, volunteered, maintained friendships, cared for their aging mothers, and sustained a loving marriage for almost 52 years. My parents made their overloaded lifestyle seem far too easy. I inherited their tendency to work hard, thinking it was praiseworthy.

And it was. People gave me kudos for good grades, good manners, and good social values. Who wouldn’t want to keep receiving that kind of recognition? I certainly did. As a child, I was diagnosed with asthma and sometimes couldn’t catch my breath. That became a physical representation of the inner race I thought I had to run. Many years later, a friend described me as “running 100 mph with your hair on fire.”

You had me convinced that if I didn’t keep toiling to measure up, I’d be a failure, unable to support myself. I was chasing a carrot on a stick, and you were the one dangling it in front of me. You told me that all my achievements came from you and that without you, I’d lose everything.

But believing you almost cost me my life.

A heart attack on June 12, 2014, at the age of 55, on the way home from the gym of all places, helped me see I needed to cut ties with you. When someone leaves an abuser, this can be the most dangerous time in the relationship. The abuser’s attempts to make the victim stay tend to become more forceful. It was the same way with you. I started saying that woman I was, died that day to give birth to the one who remains today and that she had to die because she was killing me.

When I started cardiac rehab, you persuaded me to do more: put in more time, exercise more intensely, sweat more profusely. You told me I had to substitute my fitness discipline for my professional focus because I was no longer working 12 hours or more a day and sleeping maybe 5-6 hours a night as I had for years. It felt great to leave the gym dripping wet and limping. I paid for it by feeling exhausted for the rest of the day, but it felt like a good tradeoff at the time. Naps became my reluctant bestie. I no longer felt indulgent when I closed my eyes before dark.

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Medical tests showed that my adrenal glands were suffering and that I was setting myself up for another health crisis. My doctor said to cut my workout time to three days a week — you had me negotiate for four. Are you afraid I’ll become a couch potato if I don’t respect my healthy limits?

I thought of myself as a Type A overachiever. Since the heart attack, I have downgraded to a Type B+ Workaholism is the only addiction that is praised and encouraged. I welcome kudos for chillin’.

I’m calling in the “Reserves” — the human kind. My family and friends are with me. They’re standing beside and behind me as I show you the door. You had your place in my life once. I thank you for the lessons. Now it’s time for you to go as I take a new path — one with gratitude, grace and ease — and without you.

Sincerely (no longer) yours,

Edie

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This post is republished on Medium.