the end of an era?
see you on the other side
During one of my last psychiatrist appointments before I went off Vyvanse, I asked (begged, really) my shrink to up my dosage. Understandably for a medical professional whose job is partly to make sure I don’t abuse prescription drugs, he wanted to know why. “I just can’t focus well enough to get anything I want done,” I told him, whining a little bit. “I don’t feel inspired or creative or passionate or like I have anything good or important or meaningful to put out into the world, and I used to, so I know I’m capable of it and it’s really frustrating and my brain is bad and I just need… more Vyvanse.”
He was not convinced. “Do you really think it’s you that’s the problem, or are you just not interested in or inspired by your job?” he asked me. I balked at this. Of course it’s me that’s the problem! I’d set out to be a writer, to be an editor, to work for a publication where people valued my ideas and trusted my instincts and wanted to hear what I had to say. Now I had all that and more: coworkers I genuinely liked, freedom to write just about anything I wanted, a fair enough paycheck, so many free beauty products. How could my job possibly be the issue?
Here’s how: Over time, the constant churn (and unyielding nine-hour days) of digital media bled me dry. I hit the ground running writing for the internet at 19 — no college degree, just balls of steel and the kind of adorable I-can-do-anything arrogance you only have before your brain is fully developed. I was an ingenue, a baby genius; people loved my irreverent voice and sense of humor. For the next few years, I would write up to six stories a day, many of them glorified blog posts about makeup launches and celebrity haircuts.
Miraculously (to me, at least), I kept getting promoted. I became an editor working on the occasional feature, then a deputy director assigning features to others, and then suddenly I, a person who up until that point had always identified as a writer… no longer wrote. (I was suddenly also in my late 20s, so everyone was less excited about me in general. It’s true!) Not for work, try as I might to make room in my head and schedule for it, and certainly not for my own enjoyment. Furthermore, I resented any suggestion that I should. “I’ve worked this hard and gotten this far in my career so that I don’t have to write anymore,” I would sneer, mostly to myself in my head but once or twice out loud.
In addition to being very, VERY rude, this was not even true. Somewhere deep in my belly, I still desperately wanted to be a writer. Reading and writing is always what has made me feel most alive, most like myself. I just knew that, unless I published multiple best-selling books or established an eminent freelance career, writing alone — as in, not going to sales meetings or managing a team — would never be lucrative enough for me to live the way I want to. (My violent disdain for capitalism and consumer culture is constantly at odds with my love of nice things.)
I’d also begun to doubt my own abilities, which is how I knew something had to give. I had been unwaveringly sure of (and borderline cocky about) my talent since I was 12, and yet I’d started to feel like the literary part of my brain had atrophied; I was afraid that it had. Instead of sitting with this and fighting that feeling by just fucking writing, I skirted the issue entirely by not even trying. That is where fear will get you. But I’ve felt the distinct yearning of a need for creative release, a medium to channel all my weird human inclinations and interests into something tangible that other people can see and appreciate and maybe benefit from in some way, whether that’s learning something new or relating on a visceral level or even just laughing (with me or at me, your call).
So, two weeks ago, I resigned from my job at a company I’ve worked at for five years. I didn’t do this in some empowered leap of faith that requires an existing financial safety net, as I am famously bad with money. I did get another genuinely exciting opportunity that would enable me to write for a living as a copywriter, something I enjoy and am good at that doesn’t require me to divulge my innermost thoughts and feelings and manufacture “next-day reactions” for clicks. I want to write longer-form pieces and essays on a freelance basis because I want to and because I feel like I have something to say, not to hit a production quota or exploit my personal trauma to drive traffic. I want to write outside of beauty, a subject I love (and a world I will continue to be a part of in this new role) but which no longer fulfills me entirely, and explore the wider range of topics that make me tick: pop culture, mental health, books, fashion, TV, food, and all the other things I haven’t even figured out yet.
Today is my last day at Refinery29. My laptop with all its worn-away keys will be shut off remotely at 6. I’ll miss my team and the strange comfort of working at the same place for so long, and all the free haircuts. I know they will miss my institutional knowledge and how I’m almost always the least put-together person on the Zoom call so I make everyone else look good. But I look forward to a new experience, to doing something different, and above all, to hopefully once again feeling inspired and creative and passionate and like I have something good and important and meaningful to put out into the world. I think that would be nice.
Here are some things I’ve been thinking about:
How many times I just used the words “write” (11) and “writer” (only 4!)
Night Film, which I finished in ~20 hours (and you will, too)
Whether I will ever actually wear the men’s black leather coat (approximate weight: 8 lbs.) I got at Buffalo Exchange last weekend
Washing my hair more often than twice a week. It seems to like it!
Buying everything Quince sells
Drinking less (no, really)
Winter fragrances — I’m loving Lake & Skye Midnight 07
Ghislaine Maxwell staring at her courtroom illustrator and drawing them right back!!!
