The Devil I Knew

Yes, I hated my profession by the end. Actually, I hated my profession quite some time before the end. But, there was one advantage to practicing law – when I could force myself to do it I was a damn good lawyer. I know it sounds conceited, even arrogant, to say it in that manner. But it is the truth. Other attorneys, some quite senior to me, would often pop into my office and bounce ideas off of me. Usually, I could add to what they had already come up with. Where other attorneys came to a stumbling block, I could often point out a theory or case that would allow them to at least have a fig leaf of an argument if not a winning case. This was, perhaps, the only aspect of practicing law that I did not completely hate. Not that it did myself or my clients much good.

I could help others with legal theory, but especially at the end, I could not bring myself to do so much as make a phone call, or even answer a phone call. The other attorneys in the building would drop by and I would offer sound advice on their cases, then immediately go back to navel gazing. But, in my heart, I knew that I could do it. My competence was in no way in doubt.

Then all of that changed. Regardless of the “prestige” of being a lawyer, I recognized the need move on from the law. Now that change has arrived, I find myself again at the foot of a steep learning curve in my new profession. Perhaps it is a bit of an exaggeration to say “the foot”, but I do have much to learn. After having achieved a high level of competence in my prior profession, this can be difficult to take.

At each misstep or error, which happens more often than I’d like when dealing with math, the critical voice inside my head goes into overtime. Perhaps you have heard this voice as well, the one that tells you, “You are a fool” “You will be fired” “They’ve seen through you now”, etc. ad nauseum. No, again not an actual voice, thank God, but feelings of doubt, low self-worth, and pure fear. The fear is the worst part. It is the part of my mind that unleashes the primal monkey in my brain and makes me want to climb chittering up the nearest tree and hurl feces at passersby.

All of this is coupled with the damnable self-examination to which I must constantly subject myself. “Am I being manic, or is this a normal reaction to a stressful situation?” “Is it normal to feel this frustrated at the end of a difficult day at work, or am I sliding into a depression?”

Someone asked me the other day if I missed practicing law. I answered honestly that I did not miss it one teeny tiny bit. I still believe that to be true. I am still relieved not to deal with the problems and emotions of others (dealing with my own are enough, thankyouverymuch). But what I do miss is the feeling of absolute competence. The feeling of mastery of a profession. The positive part of my mind tells me that I will learn this new profession in time as well – perhaps becoming as fluent in this as in others before. But at present this is cold comfort. No matter how it galled, how much it burned, I miss dancing with the Devil I knew.

Strange and unique things I have done recently

Started a blog.

Made a batch of salsa from scratch for the first time (hummus is next).

Knocked on the door of the house where my children live and that on the deed of which my name appears before entering.

Found a long-lost friend from high school who lives in the area.

Broke a board with my bare hand (thanks, Lori!)

Bought a car and leased an apartment in one day.

Started a job that requires the regular use of mathematics (fortunately only fractions, but teeny tiny fractions that are turned into teeny tiny percentages out to 9 decimal places).

Re-discovered about 100 books that I’d forgotten that I have.

Started burning candles on a regular basis. I started because one or more of my neighbors smoke and the smell filters into my apartment. I continue because of the smell, and also because I find it calming for some reason. Yeah, I am weird.

Why I would give money to bums now.

In the not too distant past I, like most Americans, would drive past the sign-toting bums standing at a prominent intersection pleading for money. The justifications are familiar: "Lazy bums"; "They will just use it to buy beer or drugs"; and/or "My taxes already pay for welfare programs". Now, I am not so sure.

I will not necessarily give them something every time, but if I have a free buck or two I will. In these individuals I see a possible fate averted, or perhaps yet in the future yet.

How can otherwise intelligent, educated people fall into the well of homelessness, addiction and the indignity of begging? It is a question that many have asked. Now, having stood at the yawning brink of insanity I feel now that I have an answer to the question. Thoughts of suicide plagued me for some time, even the exact plan of how I would accomplish it. In the end, though, I realized that I could not kill myself. At least, not in one go.

What I could do would be a much more slow form of suicide. Part of the appeal of suicide is to spare your family and loved ones from the torture that you have inflicted upon them. The realization that if you were gone that most of the many problems would go with you. So, you could simply dissappear. Dissappear from the family, knowing that your parting would cause passing trauma but not as severe as if you killed yourself -- probably. Your absence would certainly alleviate the problems you caused in the family. Finally, you could hide from yourself in the haze of addiction.

Maybe it enables these souls in their quest of self-destruction to give them the means to accomplish it (and who knows, perhaps some of them are actually just desparate souls needing help). But I cannot feel that by 'enabling' them, if that is what I am doing, I am respecting their decision to take a path that I consiered and ultimately set aside.