Writing a report for work. 

Sounds boring, right? Being adopted adds a lot of color and plenty of twists and turns to the task at hand. Buckle up. 

The task is officially accepted. Time to shit myself ever so slightly. Metaphorically speaking that is. My stomach is already starting to feel like it is stockpiling the poo. I can feel my digestive system shutting down. Productivity in every sense has officially halted. Hurray for another report deadline. 

The anxiety is already creating lots of pain and discomfort throughout my body. That familiar business as usual when writing a report has crept in again. The report will not wait. My body screams at me to reject the task. I am already exhibiting classic symptoms of stress. Unfortunately, all these symptoms do not stop me from telling everyone a bunch of crap to keep them at bay. I got this. No big deal. Will have the report completed in a few days. Yeah, right?! Repeating those words is out loud is also helping me buy into my own deception. Reality check. The task is not easy. I am honestly afraid the world is about to end. Although this would be catastrophic, it would get me out of having to deliver the work product. Sounds like a good plan b then. 

Where is the warrior and a master of my profession persona everyone seems accustomed to just showing up and saving the day? If only they all knew the real me. My superhero cape is in the wash. There is a white noise in my head where the wealth of knowledge is allegedly coexisting. 

What is really happening inside my head is quite frightening. I need to scream a lot, faint a little, or hide away and pretend I am invisible. Please tell me I do not exist. If I do not exist, then this task is not real. Please make it not real. 

Why did I think I could do the stupid report? How did I fool everyone again into believing I could? They really want to pay me to write some awful masterpiece on paper when I am not brave enough to try and read the words back even to myself. There is no way I can edit or ever deliver the report labelled as “complete”? 

The report is still pending. To be clear, pending by my definition means I have not started to do anything. No research or even any real acknowledgement of the subject matter. I need to make a proper start to the task at hand. I can do this. ……. Instead I make soup. What a great time to make a call to my sister. Let me now watch some crappy reality shows. Catch up on how everyone else’s lives suck more than my own. That will help. Nope. Now I feel depressed with the world. How could I watch back to back episodes of Teen Mom and think that would help me write the report? I suck at life. SUCK !!!! 

Pen and paper poised as I pour over every possible source of information that might in the slightest bit help me start to write this report. Let me rewrite what the policies say. Highlight every sentence I read. I wish my brain were superhuman. There was a thumb drive of all the necessary usable materials with a dash of confidence thrown into the mix. Ready for direct input into my brain. Typed up faster than the speed of light. I would settle for forty words per minute right now. There is no magic data transfer. I am not superhuman. The words bounce off the page and leave me feeling dizzy and confused. 

Here I go. I wrote a sentence. Nope. Scratch that. Start again, and again. Let me spend hours writing one sentence in hope the remainder will flow. I will charge absolutely none of my time to this completely fucked up part of the process. Never have and likely never will. I could retire on the pain staking years of research, note taking and rewrites that come before this latest awful moment in my work career. 

 I am failing again to find the golden ticket which may lead to a quick how to write and complete the work without having a semi-nervous-breakdown. No joy there. I still suck. Cue the timing for adding the usual ‘I hate myself and everything I do’ to the mix.  

Things could not get much worse. I want to cry. Just let me scream a little bit. No, that would represent progress. Instead I get mad at the kids for something trivial. Fail to make dinner at a reasonable hour or even shop for said food. Rely too much on my husband to provide more hugs than usual. Let him rescue us with last minute dinner plans and to compensate for me not being able to tackle the grown up stuff and write a report at the same time. This pain is worse than childbirth. And it is all centered on a stupid report. Argh!!!! That is, it. I screamed! Job done. Well the screaming part is a good start. 

I am now drowning in detail. Wading through the proverbial muck. My head seriously needs to filter and dismiss most of what I have completed to date. How do I write a sentence, let alone a whole bunch of valuable words? Self-doubt, self-hate, selfish consumption of as many negative thoughts as I can muster. 

Let me introduce another sugary snack. Nothing wrong with adding to those I already ate mindlessly throughout the day. Ooh here is a familiar and well-rehearsed distraction. Let me search for that just full feeling to trigger the I am now content signal to my brain. Some more chips or a sandwich will help with the endorphins needed to release that feel good factor I need to finish the damn report. A soda will keep me awake as I work into the night. Migraine meds at hand ready to combat the buildup of sugar. Caffeine acting as a crutch to get me to the end of the latest version of my endless report. 

Fuck!! I have written a novel! Thirty pages too much! Add stupid to the list of names and labels I apply every time I work hard to get to this point in the drawn out process. Ooh Deanna you are such an overachiever. 

Editing the words, I worked hard to write is leading to absolute despair. How can I remove even one word? It took so much of everything I had just to get to this point. This work hurt me so much physically and mentally. Now I must edit and purge the words? I hate my life. 

Here is another welcomed distraction. Let me daydream about what other job could I do. Is it too late to retrain? Maybe I could do something that helps others. I care about people so much. What can I do to stop their pain and help them through life? Cue the reality check. I know what I am doing. The same old same old bullshit I call upon to combat my own pain and struggle at this stage in the report writing process. Sure, do something to help others and in turn deflect my own pain. Literally anyone with pain please step this way. Rather than face my own struggles head on I will heal you with words and a kind hug. Anyone? Form a line. Fuck you, stupid report!! I hate you and everything you do to reveal how messed up I really am.  There will always be some form of work product ready to beat me up. Great idea to bury my own responsibilities and choose to take care of everyone else’s shit. 

The report is now late. 

The client and team probably hate me. I am convinced. Maybe everyone realizes I was a stupid choice to start with. There is a shelf life for depending on the British accent to fool everyone into thinking I am as smart as I supposedly sound. Busted! They must be on to me after all these years of my crazy antics. Avoiding eye contact for so long must have an end date. I can feel their eyes burning into my soul when we have a zoom call.  Let me rely on my tool kit of woes …. I must prepare for the worst. What if they have managed to crack my code? They may now know what makes me so bad at delivering a work product. I am unhinged. Well and truly bonkers.  Right now, it is hard enough to remember to breath in and out. There is no way I can survive in any kind of professional arena. I am completely incapable of delivering the report. And yet here I am pushing through and trying to get the work done despite the hell I am currently in and unlikely to leave. There is a contract. I must deliver. 

Stay up all night it is then. What a great plan. I can eat more crappy food, drink more caffeinated drinks, not consume enough water. I am at the point where throwing myself from the office window is becoming an attractive option. Now I am at the height of feeling the maximum extent of panic and anxiety. The switch on my brain has switched to full blown panic.  Anxiety bashing away at my physical and mental wellbeing. Something is happening to my body.  A feeling of complete hopelessness is closely followed by the triggering of what I can only describe to be my survival instincts. My mind is becoming clearer. Not brilliant, but enough to push through past all the agony I am holding inside. I am now writing as if my life depends on it. 

The report is complete…I hate it. 

Not willing to read it over anymore I am left with the only option available at this stage in the process. I must hit send on the email. The report is delivered. Released to those that need to see it and critique.  Why did it take all my strength to hit the send button? 

Staring at the sent items in my mailbox can only be described as feeling as if I have been run over by a bus. Scraped up from the road and somewhat resembling roadkill.  Now I must wait. I am such a mess. The fear of what the response will be is unbearable. What if they confirm it truly is a pile of dog shit? They may laugh and mock me. I literally want to die. So, here I am hiding. There is nothing wrong with avoiding any eye contact with the outside world, or responding to emails, or calls. Pigeon carrying message response or smoke signals are welcomed. Less easy to receive or decipher. I refuse to chase for a response. That is like speeding up my execution date while waiting on death row. Let me hide for as long as possible. Maybe there is enough time to watch more mindless crap on tv? 

No shit, they loved the report!!! Really? Are they to be trusted? So, there were not too many words? Is it not too off topic? Did I say enough? Cover enough of the technical crap? Instead of accepting their words graciously and confidently, my receptors are working on overload. I must search out the negative feedback and then die a very long and painful death.  Instead I choose to not believe them. It is impossible to hear the words of positive praise when my receptors hit the mute button. 

Compliments are almost as difficult for my receptors to process as criticism. I feel socially awkward. Quick to speed things along. Sure, ok. I got it. You love my work. Enough with the gratitude. It is what you pay me to do. All the time wondering why they were not smart enough to see how obviously fucked up I am. Maybe you did not really read the report and are being kind or two faced. Some bathroom wall inscribed with “Deanna is shit at writing reports” instead of breaking it to me gently. 

 There is enough time before the next report is requested for me to retreat and go into hiding. I need to rest. Lick my wounds for the foreseeable. Good of bad work products result in no real gratitude or selflove and praise. Do I have anything left needed to convince myself I am good enough to keep moving forward in this profession? This is all too exhausting.  Instead I allow just enough time to critique and self-loath before the next task is issued. 

The only reminder I have for the previous report completion is an invoice and my body feeling close to another near death experience. On to the next task. Same old shitty fears, different project, identical result.  I suck at reports. Maybe this time death will be closer. I am so afraid. 

 My ability to keep pushing through the pain and deliver the work continues to stretch  me to my absolute limits. Another day another dollar.  I am good enough. I can do this.  Maybe if I keep saying that enough and continue to deliver reports,  there will come a time when I believe what everyone else says. I want to know I am good enough without all the effort it takes to remember to breath, take care of myself and still deliver the conveyor belt of work. Back  to the next report it is then. This time I am going to replace fear with anger. Turn the hurt into honesty and share some of the bullshit I have put myself through to get to the end of the projects. Instead of excuses I am going to be direct. Look them straight in the eye and tell them it is not an easy task. That is why they pay me the big bucks!! My work is worth the wait. If it is not, I am sure you will tell me. I have worked harder than you know to get to this point in my career. These reports are not fun. No one else cares more than I do about this project. You are in safe hands and I am the best at what I do.