I suppose I’m writing this out a (vain?) hope that this might help things to make more sense. That it might palliate my fears in some way, and maybe settle the sourness in my stomach. James Altucher, a blogger who I like, advocates a sort of radical honesty that I find attractive, and following his example, I want to use this blog not only as a mouthpiece for my esoteric ponderings on wine and philosophy, but for my other thoughts and feelings as well.
I find myself back at the crossroads. The one I left a few weeks ago, at the suggestion of a guide, to travel down a very particular road I hadn’t considered traversing before. Having never paid this road much attention, I found myself thinking a lot about it, and let myself get a little too attached to the possibility of reaching a rather attractive destination at the road’s end. It appeared to be everything I wanted: challenging, rewarding, and rather obscenely lucrative, assuming it worked out. And it was dropped into my lap (because of the blog!)—even better! But I’ve found the way immovably blocked (at least for now), at least until I find a way to clear it, or a detour opens up. Neither can happen overnight.
By way of rationalization, it was a long shot—not something I should have assigned as high a probability as I find I did. Ah, but hopes and dreams are not probabilities in the human heart, even in one as ambitiously rational as mine. And rejection never feels good, regardless of the extenuating circumstances. Turns out I lack a heart of machine-like functionality, despite possessing sincere admiration for Crocker’s Rules.
So I’m back at the crossroads. Staring at all these roads again. Roads that feel stale, roads I am sick of considering, that I now have to triple- and qualdruple-check for soundness and compatibility with my goals. Wait—what are my goals again?
What’s worse is that I find myself under more pressure this time. Ever-increasing pressure, as these weeks turn into months, as my wife’s belly continues to swell in inverse proportion to her energy level, and the potential of losing her (substantial) monthly contributions to our income becomes more real. I’m not sure whether this pressure will make my search for more profitable and fulfilling employment easier or harder*, but either way, I’ll have to figure out a new way of dealing with the leaden feeling in the pit of my stomach, and move on.
I hope my little allegory is clear enough to count as honest. I’m looking for a new job, just in case it wasn’t clear. I feel like I’m considering too many different options, none of which I find terribly compelling (at least for longer than a few weeks), and this recent foray toward a job was the furthest I’ve traveled in any one direction for quite some time. Now, back at square one, I feel paralyzed by pure possibility. Of course, it makes sense that nothing would tickle my fancy right on the other side of rejection, so instead of just feeling rejected, I feel rejected and hopeless. Uninspired. Worried. So I’m lying on the world’s couch, spilling my guts in metaphors, caring very little what you write on your notepad, hoping for some relief, some encouragement, and perhaps some clarity and inspiration. Anyone have any they can spare?
*After thinking about it a bit, if forced, I’d guess that the proportional graph between pressure and success (at least in my own life) looks like a big hump with a sharp spike up and then down again at the far end. That is to say, success correlates positively with pressure at first, then levels off and sinks as pressure increases. Finally, when the pressure builds enough into a sink-or-swim scenario, success spikes back up, then right back down when it becomes too much for anyone to bear while remaining psychologically intact.