So the therapist I’m working with now – wait, before I tell you that, a caveat – the therapist I’m working with now exists only in my imagination, because the last one was so bad. But that’s ok. I have a fecund imagination and I’m a Gemini: magicking up a virtual therapist who disagrees with everything I say, believe and want to do is not hard.

With that caveat – the therapist I’m working with right now (in my imagination), unmindful of the reasons for which I’ve fired the last one, says that I’ll be much happier, fulfilled and healthier if I care less about my work.

And I might actually be ready to listen to her.

The last two years have been the first time in more than twenty years that I’ve had a job-job – applying my skills on behalf of one employer, for a salary, instead of, with every gig, article, script, book, building my brand(s) and business.

The difference between the two pursuits is immense. After two years of the job-job, while I value the stability and security of that biweekly paycheque (people, it’s amazing, it appears in my bank account like clockwork, and I never have to remind, plead, cajole or threaten legal action to get it), I’m starting to realize that giving my all to it, the way I did to the “I’m working for me” job, is not serving me.

When you’re engaged in creative work and when you’re basically your own employer and sole shareholder, the separation between work and life is blurred at best – impossible to achieve on the most meaningful projects. And not necessarily desirable. Some of the best work I’ve produced has been the result of personal passion, fueled by the demands of daily life. The process was arduous, but the end result, worth it, so worth it.

I was still in that place, trying to find ways to keep that fire going in the face of Flora’s illness and other pressures, when my (real-life, now fired) therapist suggested that perhaps the solution to my struggle was caring less about my work.

I fired her, stopped going to therapy and kept on caring, passionately, about every word, sentence, paragraph, project, initiative.

Today?

I’m very, very tired, and as my imaginary therapist echoes her words, I pause and ponder. Bringing that same level of passion and dedication to a Monday-to-Friday, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. (Eastern Time) salaried job, in which I have limited (zero) control over and, most of the time, inadequate knowledge of, the strategic vision of not-my-business? Recipe for angst, stress and unhappiness.

The cure, unfortunately, is probably that elusive Buddhist detachment: I do my best – for 35 hours a week – and I let go of the outcome. And I expand zero energy thinking, “OMG, I could do much better work if,if, if  [long list of things outside my control].”

So suggests my imaginary therapist.

She’s not saying work is an illusion (although sometimes, me, I do think work is an illusion). Her point is that all my pain points related to the job-job will disappear as soon as I stop caring so much…

And, dammit, she’s probably right.

Except, of course… passion is the secret sauce. Technique makes you competent. Passion makes you extraordinary.

Therapist: You’re sabotaging yourself. Again.

Jane: You’re fired.

Yes, you can fire your imaginary therapist. Her replacement sits down beside me.

Imaginary therapist 2: Where were we?

Jane: I want to bring my all to my work, and not be stressed about things outside of my control, and to definitely not bring that stress into my non-work life and, also, to have all the time – chronological and emotional – for my kids, my loves, my friends, my writing and dancing.

Imaginary therapist 2: Have you tried meditation? Or medication?

So she’s fired.

And I’m on my own again.

Still. Project The Rest of My Life is More Important Than Work begins today – as does a search for a new therapist. Perhaps a flesh and blood one this time, but no promises on that. I don’t need a therapist to tell me to meditate, take baths and walks, and smell the roses.

I need one that will help me dismantle the structure and conventions of today’s workplace while still collecting a biweekly paycheque.

In the meantime… I’m going to not work on Tuesday afternoon so that I can go to my youngest son’s year-end celebration at school and I’m not going to feel guilty about it.

Baby steps people, baby steps.

xoxo

“Jane”