On Sunday night my husband started to tease me that I love to work and that I can’t wait to get back to work. It’s not unusual for him to make fun of me in a silly voice—goofs are the foundation of our marriage after all—but I found myself shocked at his assessment. Why in the world would he think I love to work? All I do is talk about how much I hate to write and how much stress all my various projects cause me without even providing financial security. Shouldn’t the person who is supposed to know me best know that I hate to work? And I would much rather be on an island somewhere petting dogs and eating candy?
But then I thought about my actions. For most of the time we’ve been together, I’ve worked a lot. I worked weekends when I was in graduate school. And I will announce I am not going to work on my novel for the day only for him to find me click-clacking away. I produce new content four days a week across various platforms along with my longer-term projects. And my career means a lot to me. It makes sense that he thinks I love to work. It’s what I do most.
What he can’t see though, is what is driving me to work so much. I don’t wake up each day excited to have to excavate my brain for relatable content that will keep me afloat and relevant in a cutthroat industry. Creativity doesn’t flow out of me as birds chirp and scenes come together. I work so much because my OCD and anxiety have told me that if I don’t, I am a bad person.