24 Hours of Unhinged Thinking - Detox Diary Entries from Success Obsession & Validation Withdrawal
From the Success Detox Diaries: Am I losing my mind, losing my courage, or finding my words?
Detoxing from success obsession and validation addiction is really, really hard. I am writing about this in the hope of writing myself through this. Or maybe I’m writing about freaking out to avoid a worse freak-out. Either way, I am writing. And either way, I am freaking out in a way that confirms what I most feared when I decided to cold-turkey quit a successful law career to write full-time. It’s this: detoxing from the need to do something important! and be somebody! and achieve success! is more difficult and disruptive than detoxing from alcohol.1 But I can’t go back to the shiny, fake place for the same reasons I can’t go back to drinking.
I’ve written about why I left that shiny world and what I am doing now, but I want to be honest about the b-roll. I am doing everything in my power to not get sucked back into the vortex of endless competition, comparison, control, production, proving, and performing. But behind the scenes, I feel scared and insane. I genuinely do not know if I have what it takes to beat this thing, and I long for what I had before: Security, Money, Identity, Certainty. The pull is so strong.
In fact, maybe I could just reach back and grab a tiny, little bit of what I . . . No! I will not go back. I will write myself forward . . .
««« What follows are my actual journey entries as documented over the last 24 HOURS OF WITHDRAWAL »»»
» 9:00 AM: I wake in a panicked delirium.
Oh my god, I’m late for work! Wait— No. I’m not late. I’m . . . Where do I work now? Oh, right. Nowhere. I gave it all up. And I don’t remember why. Because I thought this was freedom and it would feel good? Well, it doesn’t. It Does Not Feel Good! I feel lonely and stupid and desperate. Why did I think this was freedom? Who sold me on this idea? If this is freedom, it costs too much.
» 11:00 AM: I answer emails, check substack, clean up a book chapter, and tell myself repeatedly I am not crazy for deciding to be a writer at the age of 49.
Maybe I am crazy. Objectively. Who does this? With a family and kids and looming college and a mortgage and a volatile stock market and two teenage drivers and the price of eggs andandandandand . . . Maybe I could try the 50/50 thing again—half law, half writing. It didn’t work last year or any others because law is a jealous mistress and consumes everything she touches, but maybe now? Maybe now that I’m in some kind of rhythm? Maybe now that I’ve converted my content corner to an art space?
No. I can’t go back. She will devour me. Not just the law madam but the mania. I can’t go back to the mania.
» 12:30 PM: I make breakfast for lunch because I drink coffee from 9 am to noon. I am heaping protein powder into yogurt. I am in my feelings.
Surely there are others out there leaving everything like I just did. But where are they? Do they feel like they were dropped from a helicopter in the middle of the ocean? Were they the absolute worst swimmer on the high school aquatics team like I was? Do they die by drowning in all their dream deaths? I wish I could find them so I could feel less crazy. I wish I could find them so I can dream like a normal person at night and do my work like a normal person during the day. I wish I could find them so I could text “hey ur not crazy” and they could text “hey ur not crazy either, keep writing xoxo” or something like that.
» 1:00 PM: I am full-on freaking out.
I want my old job back. Whether it’s the one the big firm gave me or the one I gave myself, I don’t care. Either would do. Either would keep me from feeling like I fucked up my whole life. Either would undo the grotesque stupidity of torching my career, erasing twenty awful, revenue-generating years when at least I knew where I was going and when my money was coming and what to say when people ask “what do you do.”
I’m okay detoxing from the existential need to be successful, but I am not okay simply existing in a suspended state of un-success. What if none of this matters to anyone? Ever? I feel sick.
» 1:30 PM: I lay on the floor of my office turned content corner turned art space and do a 20-minute breathwork mediation. I want to quit the entire 20 minutes.
I hate this. This shouldn’t be so hard. I can’t even breathe right. What is this breath pattern called? The impossible halo triactive something? I miss feeling like I am doing things “right.” I miss feeling like I’m really good at something. I miss finishing a project and getting paid for it in net 30.
Could I buy back my old life if it’s still being sold as freedom? Could I make myself believe it despite what I know about freedom’s true cost? Despite what I know about the true cost of success? I thought I was ready for this “creative” life. But I was not. I was not ready for any of this.
» 2:30 PM: I feel better (somehow) and return to writing. I write about not being ready for any of this:
I was not ready to be a beginner. I said I was. But I lied. I was not ready to make a career out of writing—from the actual beginning. As if that’s how it’s done. As if that’s how everyone else does it. As if I don’t get some kind of senior discount for starting so much later in life. As if my career success points don’t carry forward—like college credits transferred to a better school. As if I can’t skip the basic training required for privates—like a military JAG lawyer swooping in as an automatic officer. As if I can’t just add water, eggs, and oil—like a boxed brownie mix. As if I have to start from scratch.
I know it takes time, but how much? More than a year? Two years? Ten? How long does it take to become a successful writer? I know I should be asking “How long does it take to not care about becoming a successful writer,” but that’s not what I actually want to know. Even questions can lie if you let them.
» 3:30 PM: I scroll Instagram for 10 seconds and feel sad. I scroll substack notes for 10 minutes and feel less sad, but still sad. I recognize the feeling of longing to be further along. To be where others are now. I add to my writing about being a beginner:
Every person that triggers my longing to be further along was a beginner when they began. But maybe they have something I don’t have. Some type of creative resilience? This makes me think of Liz Gilbert’s book Big Magic. She wrote about the necessity of creating for no known audience and no known outcome. Did she write about feeling impotent and irrelevant? Did she write about how long it takes to stop being a beginner? Did she write about detoxing from success mania and validation addiction? I probably need to re-read that book. Maybe it will feel like Liz texting me “hey ur not crazy either, keep writing xoxo.”
» 5:00 PM: My husband comes home from showing a house and tells me he had to transfer money and reminds me I need to get my expenses to the tax lady. I have a full-on (fully internal) freak out about money.
What the hell am I doing? How will we survive on one income? How many months will we have to dip into savings? What if we don’t have money for Christmas? What if my kids aren’t proud of me anymore? What if this whole thing is hopelessly naive and idealistic? What if this is a ridiculous mid-life crisis? Or perimenopause? Or ADHD? Or a brain tumor like what happened to dad?
I am losing it. I need to be more strategic. I need to find a quicker way to write for a living. I need to complete my query letters. I need to finish the book faster. I need to read articles about how to do substack. I need to figure out the growth strategies and the networking and the recommending and whatever the successful substackers and authors are doing. I need to post Every! Single! Day! on notes. I need to learn about SEO. I need to become an SEO expert. I need to get my old clients back. I need to re-launch my firm. I need to sell something—a course, a club, a challenge, a class—something, something, anything . . .
. . . I need to stop.
» 5:15 PM: I lay on the couch and bury my face in my dog Bodhi’s fur even though he is snoring louder than you can imagine a dog could snore.
There is no fiscal emergency. We are okay. I am scared, and I’m meeting the fear with control. I can’t do that. It never ends well. We will be okay. The boys say college isn’t the thing anymore. They say massive debt for a generic degree is nonsensical. Do I agree? I think maybe I do. I don’t want to model for my kids the kind of life that serves everyone else but oneself. I don’t want to model the kind of success that devours. I don’t want to model the kind of choices that place money and certainty above creativity and curiosity. I want to show my boys courage. I want to show them joy. I want to show them beauty. I want to show them something real.
» 6:00 PM: I teach dance fitness at the gym. I may or may not have preached a 10-minute sermon between the Megan Thee Stallion and the Pit Bull. I am drenched in sweat and smiling.
All is well. I love my people and my work. I am doing what I love the most—writing, dancing, connecting, and creating from morning ‘til night. If that is crazy, do I really want to be sane?
I will make it through this.
» 11:00 PM: I’m winding down with my special snack, watching a Polish crime show2 in Polish, but thinking my own thoughts (not in Polish).
As a seasoned professional, I have the muscle memory of a trained athlete and the killer instincts of a fierce competitor. But none of these “strengths” mean anything in this new place. All my usual movements are useless here. Here, I am writing. Here, I am creating. Here, I am building something I really care about. Here, I am working consistently and with purpose. Here, no one is paying me. Here, no one cares.
This is a beginning. This is being a beginner.
I don’t need to sell anything right now. I just need to write. I need to write and write and write and write. That’s my job. The Polish reporter’s job is to investigate and write. He doesn’t care about Instagram or subscribers. Why should I? I just need to do my job. I will figure out the money when I’m ready. And I am not ready.
» 1:00 AM: I go to bed.
» 4:00 AM: I wake. Bodhi’s face is smooshed in my face. He is doing the loud snores. I am not in a dream, but I am not in my body. I am in between.
Why do I keep dreaming the same weird dreams? . . . Orbiting a planet I used to inhabit, powerless over my trajectory, drifting like some flotsam and jetsam in the fathomless dark. No space rudder. No propellant. No returnable past. No reachable future . . .
. . . Falling from dreams within dreams within dreams like crashing through ceiling after ceiling in a high-rise apartment complex. Never landing. Never reaching ground floor. Never staying on any level long enough to know if I belong. The feeling of displacement always lingering . . .
9:00 AM: I make coffee.
I am not where I was and I am not where I want to be. In am in the middle. I am caught between an old reality and a new reality; an old identity and a new identity; an old, reliable way of making money and new, horribly uncertain way of making a life.
I have fallen into a crack between two mountains. I am stuck down here, and I am screaming. I am stuck down here, and I can’t get out. I am stuck down here, and all I have is my voice, my thoughts, and some art supplies I ordered online—shipped direct to my crack in the mountains.
I am not where I was and I am not where I want to be. I am here. At the base of the chasm where the old mountain and the new mountain meet. I will do the only things I can do here. I will talk to myself. I will paint the mountains. I will compose an epitaph for my past life. I will amuse myself. I will cry. I will write a masterpiece. I will sing.
And when I’m ready, I will climb.
Pup-related bonus content; enjoy:
This might not be objectively true, and in any event, it’s not objectively quantifiable. I’m more than six years removed from substance detox so it’s impossible to compare. But what I said is what I feel. I also suspect there are measurable cultural and environmental aspects of validation and success addiction that make withdrawal more difficult. For example, for every 10 voices pressuring you to “DRINK MORE!” there are 100 voices telling you to “POST MORE!” I’m sure I’ll write about this in greater depth at some point.
My foreign crime show de jour is The Mire, Season 1 on Netflix. So far, so good.