Work will make you a person?

Dan Melo
Dan Melo
Jul 25, 2017 · 7 min read

I had convinced myself that one should enjoy one’s work. Possibly even be passionate about it. Maybe not all the time (there’s always shitty days), but the net feeling should land you near enjoyment. Or so I believed. I also thought that because you cared about something, you naturally would enjoy doing it. Our work culture has etched us with the idea that altruism in its many forms is its own reward; that such a high ideal is worth pursuing for its own sake. These beliefs informed my progress from undergrad to law school, and into my career.

I arrived in my particular profession thinking I could mitigate the suffering of others, just like my parents had before me. They’re doctors, (completely out of the question for me because, well, blood), so I tried to pick something close (albeit less blood)–law. Ok, so those aren’t terribly close. They both have letters attached to the end of our names, and roughly give us license to dabble in humanity’s well-being. In this short time, I think I have ameliorated some small amount of suffering, but at a heavy cost. I wake up most mornings on an ocean of anxiety, rolling about. Not at anything in particular, just the prospect of facing the day at work. The weekends do not suffer from the same affliction, except for moments on Sunday when I realize I have to go back to work on Monday. The feeling is akin to waking up every day knowing that at some point, whether you’re ready for it or not, you’re going to get punched in the face. Almost every day, without fail, it happens. I’ll hear an awful story and can only offer some vague hope of safety or legal protection, usually with a heavy (and expensive) downside. The trauma walking in and out of my office is so thick you could bottle it.

It gets better. This struggle to walk away produces another side effect–guilt. Guilt because it both feels and seems selfish to want happiness at work. There are all of sorts of people suffering and I’m worried about feeling good. Those people, some who I can help, many of whom I cannot, nevertheless look to me for guidance and hope. I want to be able to give them hope. Every time I do, it’s like carving off a piece of myself, and lately, it feels like there is nothing left but bones.

I haven’t been doing this work nearly as long as others. There are folks who have been fighting this fight longer than I’ve been alive to complain about the weather. Given the relatively small time I’ve practiced, there’s shame at the thought of leaving altogether, of shoving aside all of the training and all of the people I am “supposed” to help. Just so I can feel “happier” doing something far less stressful with far less on the line. I wanted, and still do, to be like my parents–strong and determined to combat suffering in its many forms. If movies have taught me anything, it’s that we should all aspire to the “impossible odds” kind of warrior, especially if your predecessors were. You know, “with great power comes great responsibility” kind of shit.

So I’ve been doing this determined march for years now. I finally arrived, face-to-face with the beast.The beast doesn’t cause me too much grief–it’s unpleasant to deal with and chews people up quite a bit. It is, however, mildly invigorating to face off with it. What I hadn’t counted on was the colossal weight you have to carry while getting there–compassion. Compassion for the people you are supposed to defend, for their circumstances, their emotions, and their stories. They (rightly) place all of that on you because that’s what you signed up for. Lord knows they’ve carried it long enough on their own.

So I am stuck between the creeping, slowly-drowning darkness of other’s suffering that is clouding my mind, while on the other hand, am racked with the guilt of leaving them alone. Not to mention the sense that I’ve wasted much of myself in pursuit of a fight that I don’t think I can continue to participate in, let alone win.

The selfish desire for emotional well-being isn’t the only thing I’m after. I also have a mind towards all the things I want to participate in outside of this particular profession. Namely, my future children’s lives, creative endeavors, and just generally living a debt-free, robust existence. I was naive and maybe even overly proud when I set out. I set out believing that somehow I was strong enough to weather the same kinds of storms that my parents had before me. That I could stand tall in the face of suffering day in and day out because altruism is an eternal wellspring of hope and strength. But it isn’t and I can’t. Or at least, I can’t wait around long enough to find out if I can.

I recognize the privilege in being able to say, “eh, I don’t want to do this anymore, it hurts too much.” Is it not also the height of privilege to avoid addressing your own suffering when you have the option to? This “debt” that I supposedly owe to society, how long till it’s paid? Or do I really owe it? Altruism for its own sake, at all costs, now suddenly seems dangerous. Because the need is infinite, inevitably the supply will never meet it, no? And then what? You have suddenly added more need to the already high pile. So even if there is privilege involved in walking away, abdicating the “great power = great responsibility” mantra, it’s a personal failing I’ll gladly shoulder for now in return for my sanity and the ability to breathe every morning.

The depth of this somewhat-existential crisis is unnerving for all the above and another, darker reason–Who am I now? If I’m not the warrior and martyr for the underserved, what do I replace those things with? Does work exist that will bring me joy in some sort of perennial sense? Or is life more akin to what Mark Manson says, that you find work you can tolerate and live with it? That there may be no such thing as something you’re “passionate” about in any perpetual sense. You may say that you know people who love what they do and have loved it for a long time. Hell, you may be one of those people. Do you…do you really? Or have we all just convinced ourselves that work is who we are, as a way of avoidance?

Said another way, have we inextricably and unnecessarily intertwined who we are with what we do each day? Beginning at very young ages, parents, relatives, and neighbors ask us what we want to be. This pestering does not stop until we either a) land in some sort of “acceptable” profession, or, b) don’t, but make enough money doing something to feed ourselves and people just get tired of asking. There is tremendous pressure to be something. Because of that, “being something” is seen as the pinnacle of your existence, and you better damn-well think the world of it. I’m not complaining about having to work. I have no qualms about putting forth an effort to continue existing. I have to wonder about the benefits of placing our work on such a high pedestal in relation to the rest of our existence that we’re hurting our necks trying to see it all the time. The days have come and gone where you participate in a single industry your entire life, or even for a significant portion of it. Yet, we continue to preach and hear the gospel of “you are what you work.” Hell, after your asking your name, the next question out of anybody’s fucking mouth is “What do you do for work?” As if your existence is aptly summarized by “Well, I am a …”

Giving up an altruistic or semi-altruistic or non-altruistic career is not a slight on anyone’s character. Hell, giving up on anything that you’ve dedicated a lot of time, energy, and emotion to does not diminish your existence. It does not change who you are. I still enjoy playing music, writing, cooking for my wife, lifting weights, and watching Rick & Morty. You are under no obligation, no matter what anyone says, to be anything. The fact that you can make that decision for yourself is one of the truest forms of self-expression and democracy. I’m not telling you or myself that we don’t have to work and shouldn’t have to. However, question the idea that your career/work = your identity. For me, the crush of grief and despair I felt everyday overcame my ability to hold up this framework of myself as a crusader for justice. There is little to be done now, except to walk away and re-evaluate where else I can present value to others in a meaningful way. Regardless, I do so intact, a complete person, not diminished by failure or exalted by any future accomplishment. I am no less of a person for laying this burden down. If I’m wrong, well, fuck it, my dogs still love me.


Originally published at millren.wordpress.com on July 25, 2017.

Dan Melo

Written by

Dan Melo

Uniquely average.

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