How ironic is it that I am
finally being paid to write, and now I don’t have time to write? That’s sort of
what happened, though. And there is some guilt. I have a job in marketing as a
writer. I have been here almost two years now. They treat me well. I enjoy the
work. I don’t mind coming in each day. These things have never coincided before
in a job. Oh, yes, but the guilt.
I used to teach. I taught
English at a community college. I primarily taught students who were coming
back to college, but they needed some remedial help with English before they
could tackle composition classes. I loved it, and I loved them. I was young,
and I got bogged down in my own ego and success. I was successfully climbing
the ladder, but the higher I went the worse I felt. I hated it up there. The air
was putrid. But, I didn’t climb back down a few rungs. I’m not entirely sure
why I didn’t, but it was mostly due to my own ego. That fucker will trip you up
every time. There’s really no nice way to say that.
So, I left. I took some
time to figure out what would make me happy because I was pretty miserable. I
stumbled upon my current position and took a leap. I was pretty sure during the
first few days that I had made a huge mistake. Why was everyone smiling all the
time? Where was the palpable stress hanging in the air? It wasn’t there. It
still isn’t.
Most days are filled with
writing, editing, and planning. I love all of those things. People will ask me
what I do, and I proudly tell them. But, what’s my purpose? So far, it seems
like my purpose is to be happy, and I do like that. However, who am I helping?
There’s no crisis each day. There’s no fire to put out. There may be a rush job
for printing, but there are never tears. Did I trade helping others for my own
happiness? And this is where the guilt comes in.
I’m not entirely sure
where I will go from here. I’m finding some new ways to get that feeling of
helping others through some volunteer work. I do know this. I’m still Marching
Fourth.
