I now allow myself to be unreliable, the person you can’t count on to make it to the party or meeting, the friend who will drop the ball because she can’t get out of the house. I hate disappointing friends, but I can only hope they understand my fragility and value me anyways, and that I’m there for them when I can be, even if that might not be very often.
Now, I can no longer aspire to the grand designs I had in mind for my career, and I’m becoming content with that, defining myself instead by qualities outside the parameters of work — my warmth, my sense of humor, my great capacity for love, just breathing. I now only take on projects that I can fit around my mental health, and write what I can only when I can. And fuck the word count/Sword of Damocles hovering over my head.