Friday, July 15, 2011

The Universe Intervenes

After what I've done to myself this week, I think I have a better understanding of the dilemma of a schizophrenic. When the treatment makes you believe you're cured, you go off the meds and fall back into the snake pit. Or maybe I'm an addict; the kind who convinces herself that one tiny little tumble off the wagon will not land her back in the gutter.

Maybe I was just too tired, too strung out, in the days immediately after we decided not to renew our lease, to understand the pure rightness of that course. As the days went by and the reality of the choice set in, I should have seen exactly why I was not unhappy about leaving it all behind. I didn't understand the peace I felt. I appreciated it…but I didn't get it. Why wasn't I looking back at even one moment of the experience with a nostalgic tear in my eye?

It was because I was done. Not just exhausted, frustrated, and not getting any richer. DONE.

The one thing I understand now, after resurrecting the whole restaurant owner experience on a small, temporary basis (evidently WAAAY too soon after euthanizing it) is that I hate it. I hate the work, I hate the dining public, I hate having to deal with employees, I hate what the stress does to me. I hate the constant problem solving; the incessant worrying about how to put more butts in the seats. All these things that were once exhilarating challenges--dragons begging to be slain, victories waiting to be won--have become nothing but assault and battery. I throw my hands up, duck and wait for the next blow.

I. H.A.T.E. I. T.

This is not something that a few days, months, years of R & R is going to cure.

It is absolutely time—and then some—to put my restaurant career behind me. I sincerely believe that is what the Universe wants me to understand. I am being told to stop and wait—patiently—for guidance. The Universe will be faithful, if I open myself to It.

Unfortunately, patience has never been my virtue; and the combination of my inbred Old World Catholic guilt and Protestant work ethic are struggling tooth and nail for dominance of my time and psyche.

Work is part of my identity. Which is a large part of the problem, I suspect. I don't know who I am if I'm not working. I do know who I don't want to be. I don't want to be a burden, financial or otherwise, on any other person—family, husband, whoever. I don't want to be useless, and I don't want to take advantage. I don't want to depend on anybody.

But truly…I think the frustrating non-success of my little County Fair venture has been the voice of the Universe telling me to sit down, shut up and pay attention. To appreciate the living I receive—through the auspices of a partner who loves to be employed, needs to be employed, and will be employed whether he has me to support or not—and start stretching into the realm beyond the material.

I am being told—none too subtly—to move beyond "I need to make a living," to "I need to live."

So, 'round about next Monday morning, I'm going to get right on that. With immeasurable pleasure.

1 comment:

  1. You know, I smile every time I read your journal lately. You really have no idea how much I admire you for going for the dream and then having the guts to say "no more" when it was your life that was being squashed. After all, wasn't making your life more fulfilling and rewarding at the heart of the dream? Now, onwards!