For once I’ve actually finished up with work before the sun went down. What does that say about my life, that anything less than a fourteen hour day makes me feel like a worthless slacker? It doesn’t matter that the project is finished and I can breathe. Somehow if there aren’t a dozen other details waiting in the queue, I feel like calamity will fall upon my head at any moment. Sometimes I think that I’ve been paddling upstream against the current for so long that when there’s nothing there trying to sweep me away, I suspect that it’s only because I’ve fought my way in the calm headwaters before the very gates of Hell.

I suppose I could have put that less melodramatically by saying simply that leisure time creeps me out. I always suspect there will be a bill on the other side of it.

So… what am I doing with my free time? I’m sitting on the couch eating Chinese take-out and searching through the endless terrain of media possibilities. To paraphrase a song, “I’ve got 1,000 channels of shit on the TV to choose from”. And I’m wondering where I go from here. I’m restless already, and it’s only Monday evening. What do I do with myself for the rest of the week? I won’t be able to start on the next project until I get the client’s server security codes next Monday.

It’s strange to look back on my life now, and where I was a year ago. Or better yet, two years ago, when I was in a different frame of mind, having visions and hallucinations, missing time and struggling just to get through each day, forgetting where I was sometimes. Or even who I was. If not for the hospital reports and the testimony of friends, I might not even know what I did in 2007. If not for friends, I wouldn’t know how I came to have the ever-so-stylish scars on my wrists.

They told me I could fix myself by keeping busy. Boy, did I ever take that one to heart. I’ve worked myself nearly to death since then. And except for a string of brief relationships last year and the occasional anonymous sex, I’ve stayed busy enough to keep the voices and images at bay and build up a small fortune in my bank account. Is that what I’m afraid of? Am I afraid that if I stop and catch my breath I’ll start falling apart again? More importantly, if that’s what I’m afraid of, what if I’m right?

A week off frightens me. The next project should be wrapped up by the end of October. Then I have nothing else scheduled for the rest of the year. If a week frightens me so much, what about having two whole months off? I don’t have another commission until January. Will I still be sane by 2010? Isn’t that really what I’m afraid of? If I don’t have 101 things on my plate to burn off every last joule of creative energy so that I’m too tired to dream, might I be afraid of winding up on the couch again with me feet tucked under me, watching the shadows move across the ceiling like wisps of smoke, whispering my name? Could I really wind up there again?

I suppose I’m wondering if it has to be work. Isn’t there something I can do besides mind-numbing computer programming to push back against the dark and scary places? Well, besides seducing identity confused college girls into anonymous sex? Couldn’t I take up painting or basket weaving? Maybe I could teach a class on avoiding the real issues. That would be fun, and perversely satisfying. I could live by avoiding dealing with my issues by occupying my free time teaching others the same. Giving back to the community and all.

Maybe I’m just afraid of being left alone in this big old house with Claire, who I know is mad as a hatter. She’s nice enough. She’s cute. She’s fuckable. But it’s hard to miss that mad glint in her eye. Am I the only one that creeps out?