Well, I ran 3.5 miles yesterday and now I’m going to complain about complaining!
I am so sick of myself and I’m pretty sure that my husband and the 26 people who read my Facebook statuses also want to take me behind the dumpster and throw a mug Michelob Ultra in my face.
I just want to get on with my life. I feel like I’m holding on to this love of my life that will never reciprocate—like I’m just pining after something. I still find myself googling former colleagues, seeing how well they are doing in their careers. I obsessively look up famous opera singers to see how they got their breaks and if there is any way, at the ripe old age of 38, that I could suddenly, somehow make a living doing this. I’m fucking stalking my own career. and the truth is (as my husband reminds me) there were aspects of the career that ripped me to shreds: the competitiveness of everything, the rejections, the cattiness, the rudeness, the rejections, the talking behind backs, the worry that you are never good enough, the rejections. Then there’s the small issue of having to pay the mortgage and keeping my kids in daycare. I want it to work out so much, but I can’t sacrifice my family’s financial health for this maybe possibly could happen dream.
So where does this leave me? It leaves me with having a nervous breakdown every 6 months and guess what—it’s that time of year again.
I’ve gone through other careers that could substitute the love of music I have, something, anything that would at least keep me occupied and distracted but now it’s been nearly 20 years and I still don’t have a career. everyone is moving forward in their careers and I feel like a stagnating teenager—this causes no end of embarrassment, shame, anger…you name it. I have these ideas about possible job options but they quickly lose steam. In this economy, when opera companies are closing and people are lucky just to be working, I know I;m acting like an entitled brat, but I can’t help the way I feel.
So here we are. Back at the 6-month cycle. What do I do? Do I finally say ENOUGH, stop practicing in the basement, divorce myself from any sort of musical anything? I have been told on several occasions that being poor was my choice—that I knew what I was signing up for when I decided to get a Masters degree in music—that this is no one’s fault but my own that I am so unhappy, struggling to find a good job. See, the thing is though, I don’t see it that way. I can’t help the way I feel. We don’t decide who we fall in love with and we don’t decide what we fall in love with. It wasn’t a mistake to pursue my love but now that my love is making me so unhappy, it may be time to start dating again. I just hope I am as lucky in finding a new relationship as I was in finding my husband.
