So here’s the thing. I think you will relate, gentle reader, because my condition, I’m convinced, is a sign of the times.

I have so many choices, that I don’t know what I want. And until I know what I want, I’m not going to be successful at it.

I even have more choices than most people, because I’m single and I have no kids. The only things gluing my feet to the ground are my mortgage and my dog. And–okay–my friends. And–okay–my family–sometimes, when they behave.

And I’m 50. That’s just surreal. I might look 50 despite my anti-aging efforts, but I don’t feel it, and I don’t act it. Funny how I used to think 50 was old. Dang, I used to think 30 was old. Now 30 is cute.

Being 50 puts some urgency on figuring out what I want and getting good at it. I get jealous of successful people who are younger than I am–and they abound. It’s not their money or their fame I covet, it’s their focus. They did one thing, learned it well, and stuck with it.

So what the hell am I going to focus on?

The only way I know how to figure that out is to write.

Really? Really.

This is ridiculous. I think of myself as a writer, and yet I don’t do nearly enough of it–at least not for myself. I spend plenty of time doing it for other people. Then I play solitaire to clear out my brain. That’s is nutty.

I “restarted” this blog last spring, wrote one post (which I deleted just now–I’ll explain why), and then unstarted again. Sheesh.

So let’s see if another “restart” will work.

For the record, the posts preceding this one really are more than a year old at the time of this writing. I was going to delete them when I restarted this blog, but I will keep them because they are still relevant. The topics I started in those posts are the ones I want to work on here. Wow, it’s amazing how much I don’t change in a year.

Last evening, I had an hour-long conversation with a person I trust. Okay, it was my therapist. She told me something incredibly validating that I might have observed myself, but it means a lot that she observed it, and imparted it to me.

I was telling her how anxious I have been–continually and chronically, over a long period of time–about being busy. I live in constant fear of forgetting something, not working hard enough, and letting someone down. I fear embarrassment and loss of credibility–not to mention loss of employability and money.

She said, “Everybody I talk to feels the same way.”

She described a world where everybody who has a job is picking up the responsibilities for their laid-off comrades. Everyone who is working is either overworking, or is letting things fall through the cracks. Everyone who is not working faces that brand of fear, uncertainty, and doubt. So, everyone is panicked.

Oh thank god. It isn’t only me.

In my last post, I described this anxiety and the calm I feel during my vacation. I don’t want to lose this calm. It feels human.

What a concept–being human. I think I’ll work on that.

It’s a vacation day, in my home and my neighborhood. This morning I enjoyed the luxury of having salon professionals wash my hair for me, then cut it. Now I’m at my favorite diner while the car gets its own salon treatment at the auto shop next door.

It’s been many months since I felt this calm. Without the enforced break of vacation, even on weekends, I feel the weight of work on me like a thundercloud about to explode with rain. As long as someone–boss, client, coworker–is waiting for some deliverable from me, my mind doesn’t rest until it is delivered.

Is this some personal anxiety of mine, or is this common?

Is the answer self-discipline and positive self-talk, or to challenge the generally accepted culture of work? The only answer I can think of, for me, is to challenge my notions about work.

In the Raymond Chandler novel, and more famous Bogie-and-Bacall movie,the Big Sleep is death. To me, the Big Sleep is one step shy: depression.

For long periods of time, I have been depressed. For me it’s a living death. No matter how exhilarating a spring day it is, no matter how angelic the children are, no matter how well stocked the pantry is, life doesn’t feel worth living. Love doesn’t break through.

When it was its worst, I took drugs, I did intensive therapy. Working on my health helped me wake up, but depression still threatens. It would be naive to believe that I can stay awake through sheer willpower and determination.

I once took a workshop in which the word “depressed” was translated as “deep rest.” Yes, the Big Sleep–but with a connotation that it’s restorative. I find that interpretation to be helpful. When I feel depression coming on, I do my best not to indulge depression to its deepest state, but I look for restoration in it. And I fight back with nutrition and exercise.

This week I am battling The Big Sleep because I am sick. I’m sacrificing several days of a personal retreat–during which my plan was to read and research careers–to a chest cold. I’m either too uncomfortable, or too drowsy from antihistamines, to read or write for more than a couple of hours per day. And I haven’t left the house in four days except to go to the doctor. I’m sleeping, resting, and restoring.

I have to believe that the time that feels wasted this week will return to me in greater energy later, after I rest.