In which I expound upon the nature of life, work and regret

I walked away from polite society a few years ago. I'd been working in Washington, DC for some 30 years and had worked my long and arduous way up to the wasteland of middle management when a conveniently-timed company reorganization came along. There were opportunities to reapply for positions in the new hierarchy, but also a rather generous severance package for those who opted to move on or simply didn't make the cut.  I'd been in the trenches for a long time at that point, had gotten tired of all that and, seeing the writing on my cubicle wall, did what any normal, responsible person does in these situations: I said, Fuck y'all and moved to the beach.

Since then, I've actually been to the beach once or twice, despite my tendency to burn. I kicked around for a couple of years pretending to be an "artist," which for me meant working out of my garage and going to the occasional gallery opening. I liked being an artist, because there were lots of opportunities to guzzle free box-wine from small, plastic glasses. And I made some nice things along the way, which my friends bought.

But I soon learned that having no fixed schedule and no place to be on a regular basis is not a terribly healthy thing for drunks. At least not for this drunk. It turns out I'm someone who needs a job, and not especially for the paycheck. 

Which brings me to where I am today. If you had told me, back when I still had the white-collar desk job that I would be doing the type of work I'm doing now, I would have laughed in your face. (And if I told you the hourly rate I make now, compared to when I had that white-collar desk job, you might be tempted to laugh in my face, for which you would be instantly forgiven.)

I work with elderly clients, providing care and assistance in their homes. It pays slightly more than nothing, but I’m fortunate to be at a point in life when some of my ships are coming in and I have now multiple dribbles of income and some meager resources to call upon in a pinch. 

You might think, Dear Reader, that someone as crabby as I would recoil at the thought of helping others to the toilet, but I've found this isn't the case. I like my clients, especially the crabby ones (ahem), and the work itself actually sets a counter-balance to my own crabby nature; it suits me, and no one is more surprised than I am. It isn’t glamorous — far from it — but neither is it ever boring. No day is ever the same as the day before, and yet there comes a sense of normal routine.  My schedule is largely my own, while still requiring that I show up sober and on time. There are challenges of course, but these do not exhaust or deplete me the way my “real career” often did. 

Mostly, it pulls me out of my own crabby self, and and allows me to see beyond my own anxieties and angst. It forces upon me a sense of compassion, and allows me to feel helpful to others in ways that pushing papers never did. 

I mention all this, because I've been thinking about those years in DC. Through the magic of Facebook I'm still in touch with most of my former colleagues, who number in the hundreds, spread across the nation. I watch their progress, track their comings and goings, their accomplishments. When I see that one of the regions are coming together for a conference or planning meeting, it always makes me smile. I remember how much fun it was to see everyone, to catch up, and to plan strategies for this or that new initiative we were launching. And if I don't often miss my former life, I must admit, I do sometimes grow wistful at those moments. I miss being a part of it. 

During those years, I had the privilege of working with the very best and brightest in their fields. I learned a great deal from them, and was a better person for the time we spent together. I have tremendous respect and admiration for them, all of them, and I like to think that feeling is mutual. 

And yet... and yet... there's this nagging little voice in my head that says, "They weren't fooled, y'know. They all knew you were a drunk who was just phoning it in all those years. If they still think of you at all, it's probably to snicker about how far you've fallen."  

That is one wicked little voice, let me just say. It's what one of my favorite former mentors refers to as my "inner critic," and I've fought it my entire life. I'm my own best enemy, blah, blah, blah. I've come to think that being drunk was a way of silencing that inner critic, of replacing it with a different voice, one of bravado and surly confidence: "Oh yeah? Think you're better than me? Well, bring it on, bitches, 'cuz you ain't seen nothin' yet!"

All this played out only in my own head, of course, a neurotic circle of thought that went round, and round, and round. Walking away from my former life was my first serious attempt at breaking that circle. And, though I'm still grappling with it, I'm finally making progress.  

I don't regret getting off the merry go round long enough to finally wrestle my demons to the ground. I don't regret walking away from what I had before; from who I was, before. I am not that person today. 

Yesterday made 8 months sober, the longest I’ve ever gone. It doesn't sound like much, but to me it's huge. I'm not carrying my regrets forward. And I’m not going back.