Saying Goodbye To My Toxic Working Style by Gillian Barnes

I have always given 110%. As such, I have looked up to people, and more specifically characters, who do so too. Sometimes those characters are less than well-received. Some top ones include Tracy Flick from “Election”, Pearl from “Steven Universe”, Leslie Knope from “Parks & Recreation”, and finally, Joy from “Inside Out”. 

Each of these characters could be described in the following ways: high-achiever, positive, and driven. However, those same characters can also be called super intense, difficult, and unpopular. I have always disregarded the latter negatives because honestly, their results speak for themselves. Recently though, I have been rethinking my outlook. 

Is being the best worth being unliked? Is being someone who values all-in or all-or-nothing the way I want to be? My new answer is no. It has taken me 35 years to realize… that way of life is pretty damn toxic. 

Why People Are Toxic Achievers

Look. If there weren’t reasons to be like the characters outlined above, there wouldn’t be so many of us Type A crazies running around. But there are… so what are those reasons?

You will be promoted: It isn’t a question, but a matter of time… you will advance in your field if you give it more than you thought possible for an extended period of time. People will disagree with me on this point, but I would wager those people gave up the level of intensity before they peaked. I have consistently become the right-hand “man” of many powerful people by living for my job. For example, in one employment situation they had to replace me with three people when I was promoted to another department.

The Downsides No One Sees

Now, that all sounds great, but here’s the downside… at night I would go home and cry myself to sleep under the covers while shoveling ice cream into my mouth. I never had time for my friends because I also had a photo business that I was also rocking. There was no space for me…

Another major issue with being the way I was? People assumed life was just “easy” for me because I was ramping up career-wise very quickly. That wasn’t the case. I worked until I was metaphorically bleeding… but I didn’t let them see that!

And another issue… people downright dislike you for living as I did. I guarantee if you aren’t “one of us” you have called them… “brown nose”, “that b*tch”, “suck up”, or something far worse. 

Jealousy becomes a real thing for people who are either barely toeing the line or doing the minimum. They think they deserve the same things you do and they don’t examine the effort levels you are putting in versus them. It isn’t fair, but it happens. 

*Side note: bosses shouldn’t encourage individuals like former me as it breeds a cultural problem in companies, but they do… if you are a boss, try developing these employees slowly before they burn themselves out. They will be of more use to you long-term than they will be for the 2-3 years they burn bright.

*Side note II: I want to state that in this age of “quiet quitting”, I don’t consider toeing the line to be in the same camp as that. Doing the job you were meant to do well is not the minimum. I stand in solidarity with individuals who set and maintain boundaries. It’s healthy.

Finally, what happens to people like me after ten or so years of living like this? Unchecked aggression (usually at those who can’t match the pace I’ve set… unrealistically) or anxiety that will not quit. 

Does any of this sound good to you? Nah. 

Being A Toxic Writer

So what does it have to do with being a writer? It means that writing 300 words at a sitting does NOT feel like an accomplishment to me. It means that I am awesome at sitting down and cranking an article, but long-form is ridiculously hard. It means that I prioritize paid work for other people over my own work. It means I can only see the finish line and that I am incapable of enjoying the process of writing a novel. 

But there is hope… because I am changing. You can do it as well. 

Seeing Things Differently

Several things in my life have changed recently and they have me changing my way of working…

1. I went to a writers' meetup where one novelist had written multiple books simply by enjoying the writing in small bursts. This probably isn’t a “novel” (haha) concept to many, but to me, it is. Before then, I was always thinking if I didn’t push out a novel in a matter of months that was a certain word count… I had failed. What he inspired me to see is that if I keep going and make progress–if I like the writing–if I get excited and continue to be so, I’ll get there and I’ll actually like doing it!

2. I had a daughter. Nothing will rip your routine apart like a newborn. I had been in a bit of a novel-writing slump for a while, but man, it seemed impossible to write with her around! She needed me…and she needed one million percent of me. Well, that may have been true for her first few weeks of life, but right around two months, something changed–a few things actually…

She began sleeping through the night AND she started understanding to self-soothe. In exchange, I began to realize that she could sit on her little pillow or in a chair happily, while I did things for me. That and I could do things during naps other than passing out or binging TV. Ever since that point in time, I’ve started prioritizing my writing and my reading. I can’t do it all, but I can certainly do something, which is all that matters. 

I hope this helps someone. This blog is 800+ words and it wasn’t painful to write. I did it with a newborn staring at me. You too can do great things in small bursts.

The First Glass of Water By Alex Woodroe

The first glass of water appeared long before I was even thirsty. 

I’d woken up in the middle of this vast and unrelenting desert surrounded by nothing but dead shrubs and even deader grains of sand. There was nothing around me, and nothing inside me, either. When I tried to summon my name or any details of my life, the only thing I could remember were the books I’d read in high school. How strange. Not even the high school itself, nor the teacher who’d made me read. Only the books.

I guess I’d finally discovered the one situation in which high school literature had some value. Being lost in a desert with no memories and no thoughts except On the Heights of Despair.

When after a few steps I stumbled onto that tall glass full of cool clear water, I didn’t take it as a sign of anything strange. I just assumed the most normal thing that my head could possibly assume — that I was only steps away from civilisation, a pub or a school or something. That someone had walked into this desert for a moment of peace with their glass of water and, after spending a minute sat on the edge of a dune thinking, they’ve left and forgotten it there.

Never mind that the water was still cold. Never mind the frosty dew dripping down the side of the glass.

So convinced I was that salvation lie right around the corner, I didn’t even drink the water. I rushed up a ridge to a vantage point to look around—and found nothing. Only more desert. Figuring it must have been the wrong way, or deliverance was hidden behind some strange angle of the geography, I sped back down to the glass of water and started searching in a spiral around it. Ever broader my spiral went, until I was turned around completely and could no longer find my starting place or the water that, by this point, I would have thoroughly enjoyed drinking.

The sun was high, but it had been for a while and I wasn’t the sort to navigate by it. Instead, I rejected my fear and denied my anxiety, picked a point on the horizon that looked most likely, and started walking to it.

The next time a glass of water appeared before me, I drank it so quickly it barely wet my throat, then only briefly looked around for any signs of life before carrying on forward. Only after the memory of the coolness of the water was long gone did I stop to wonder; where had it come from? How could it have stayed so cold? What if it were poison?

I was still holding the glass and looked at it as if to ask it, who are you? Why are you here? But it was the plainest and dullest glass I’ve ever seen in its flawlessness, and now was getting warm and disgusting to the touch. In a fit of panic, I flung it into the distance, hoping it would land on something with a thud and the crash and reveal my salvation to me. Instead, only the desert winds howled at me as if to ask me those same questions. Who are you? Why are you here?

My feet soon grew heavy and every breath I drew seemed hotter than the last. I tried to probe my mind as much as I could for any possible reason why I’d ended up in that situation; any reason why anyone would hate me enough to put me there, any reason why my own memories would betray me, but I could remember no people in my life nor flaws that I may have been guilty of. I suppose there must have been some of both. 

Before long, my mind had drifted right back to the glasses of water, this time not in an accusation, but in wondering when the next one would arrive.

Wasn’t it curious how quickly I’d grown to expect something that had no reason for existing in the first place? Was that all it took, two times before a miracle became something I felt I was owed? Maybe this hell was something I deserved, if that was the kind of person I was.

My resolve not to think about it only lasted for a handful of minutes. As soon as my brain relaxed back into doubt and paranoia, I found myself trudging forward through the wall-like density of the incandescent air solely from desire to reach the next refreshing drink. I could focus on nothing else. Every breath I drew wished it was a gulp of water instead.

My hands felt like claws and my feet hardened aching hooves. I pushed my body as far as it would go and when it collapsed into a crumpled heap, I shoved it up and pushed it forward again. So focused was I on my hurtle forward, I nearly kicked the next glass right out of existence. I caught my fumbled step just in time and succeeded in only spraying sand into it, though I drank it down eagerly just the same. The moment the bottom was dry, I was already thirsty again, and knew I wouldn’t make it another stretch if the intervals kept getting longer.

Three times. That was how many repetitions it took for my head to start extrapolating logical conclusions, and the most logical one was that the next glass would take even longer to show up. Would I laugh, and call myself a fool when it didn’t? Or reach some new arbitrary conclusion that pointed to my certain death?

My body was so heavy and weak. Under the influence of more than a little stupid anger, I snapped a twig off the embarrassing husk of a plant nearby and stuck it in my mouth, thinking I’d chew on it and feel a little relief. The bitterness of it choked me, and I spat it into the sand, moisture vanishing long before it could leave any imprint. It was like the desert was a funnel that sucked life out of our world and sent it someplace else. 

I was going to die, and yet I walked on. Why?

It was almost easier to, now that I’d accepted death. It was easier to take every step knowing that there was no ulterior motive, no purpose pushing me forward. Every step was a step unto itself, and that made it lighter than if it had been a small piece of something greater.

I found that the next step was lighter and the one after that lighter still. Up ahead, nothing changed, but my will to get to that nothing became greater. And just like that, before I knew it, another glass of water had appeared.

I studied this one carefully before picking it up. I picked it up, and studied it some more. I drank it with the poise and refinement of a connoisseur on a whiskey tour. I sloshed it around in my mouth and breathed in through my nose to enjoy every honey golden tone. 

Had it been faster to appear at this time, or had I just done a better job of distracting myself with my own thoughts before it got to me? There was no way of knowing. It could have been two hours or twenty. The sun was still high in the sky, but it was clear by now that this meant nothing. That I was not in any normal desert. That I was not on any normal land.

So I walked on, this time expecting nothing, knowing I was in control of nothing. Knowing my choice was either to keep walking, or stop, and that I could do the latter any time, but might stop just short of the next glass of water. And in that knowing, finally, at peace with walking.

If you enjoyed this piece, please follow Alex Woodroe on Twitter @AlexWoodroe.