Check it out. My Resistence drinks Jager

I notice a lack of wanting to be in my life right now.

I don’t want to do what’s on my to do list.  I don’t want to bill hours or work for clients.  I don’t want to call anyone.  I don’t want to work on my taxes.  I don’t want to exercise, eat well, or take care of myself.  When I’m at home, I don’t want to be there or, alternately, I don’t want to leave.  When I’m out, I don’t want to go home.

I want to drink heavily.

And zone out.

A lot.

I’ve been here before.  Often.  In this place of inertia … boredom … avoidance.  Oh yeah, avoidance. I sit down at my desk in the morning but I don’t work.  I play word games on my computer (curse lumosity.com), check online forums, read blogs, and hang out in the Twitter bar, where I sit alone in a corner and drink whiskey.  I read and re-write the customer focused story I’m working on, obsessing about individual words as if it’s the last thing I’ll ever say. When I look at my email, there’s a sense of too much information, most of it irrelevant and distracting. First I want to buy whatever Naomi is selling.  Whatever it is, I need it.  Then I want to unsubscribe, followed by low-level anxiety that if I do I might miss out on the magic beans, that one thing I need.  I’ve fallen into the trap of thinking that everyone else knows better than I do, that I’m not enough.

After all, I’m doing something I’ve never done before and that’s all kinds of scary.  I feel good that I’m learning what I need to know and that I’m getting support.  And I notice that the more progress I make, the more where I am right now, a total newbie with a business in its infancy, is not okay with me.  I want to be awesome already.  Like now!

And all of my stuff is coming up.

My Resistance  is gleefully running amok.  (Picture a gang of shaggy little monsters reminiscent of the 80′s style McDonald’s Fry Guys and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what they look like.  Only not as cute.) “Who do you think you are?”, they shriek, jumping on the furniture and giggling hysterically.  ”How dare you think you have something to offer!  You, with no formal training, no bestseller or Oprah appearance, no confirmed expert status at all… Nyah Nyah!”  The green one is standing on the red one’s shoulders, about to cannonball on to the couch.  ”You didn’t even finish college!”, he squeals.  Ouch!  That hurts.  The yellow one and the blue one are bowling with the good china. “No one’s gonna want that.  No one’s gonna want you.”  Neener, neener, neener!!!”

The anxiety of the last couple day has been mostly about this:  where am I going to find people who might be interested in my Thing?  And how will they find me? And about fear and inadequacy.  What if I’m not good enough?  What  if no one wants my Thing?  What if no one wants values it enough to want to pay for it?  What if all of this connecting with my imaginary clients I’ve been doing is a bunch of bullshit and I made it all up?  What if there’s no one out there who’s really like that, who has the problem I’ve imagined they have?  What if nobody likes me?  What if I fail miserably?  What if I fail, having spent money that I didn’t have to blow, having spent waaayyy more time than thought I would, having poured my heart and soul into it?

Yeah, that.

What if, that?

My monsters crank up the Violent Femmes and break out the roller skates and Jagermeister……