It started about a week ago.
I had just finished a couple of months of the pure horribleness that is discovery -- for all those who have no legalese in their vocabulary, discovery is, in simple, practical terms, the process by which evidence is gathered and exchanged with the opposing party. For two months, I have been at the helm of managing discovery for a complicated case. The subject matter is altogether boring, but the personal drama between the parties (and yes, the lawyers themselves) kept the work interesting. Relatively interesting.
And for two months, I barely was at home, barely saw my family or friends, barely was present. All I could focus on was Work -- capitalization intended. When I was around another person not on my legal team, I looked haggard, with my hair standing on end and eyes unable to focus on anything but simple things, like food, bed, cigarettes, etc. I was bearable only to my colleagues, and even then, we snipped and snapped at each other like macaws on pistachios.
In retrospect, I didn't really have time to question what I was doing or engage in any kind of self-assessment that I, the quintessentially pseudo-self-aware, twenty-something New Yorker, would normally have done. I just did what I had to do, just so I could survive and move on. Am I making sense to you? Maybe you get it - I don't know.
I had just finished a couple of months of the pure horribleness that is discovery -- for all those who have no legalese in their vocabulary, discovery is, in simple, practical terms, the process by which evidence is gathered and exchanged with the opposing party. For two months, I have been at the helm of managing discovery for a complicated case. The subject matter is altogether boring, but the personal drama between the parties (and yes, the lawyers themselves) kept the work interesting. Relatively interesting.
And for two months, I barely was at home, barely saw my family or friends, barely was present. All I could focus on was Work -- capitalization intended. When I was around another person not on my legal team, I looked haggard, with my hair standing on end and eyes unable to focus on anything but simple things, like food, bed, cigarettes, etc. I was bearable only to my colleagues, and even then, we snipped and snapped at each other like macaws on pistachios.
In retrospect, I didn't really have time to question what I was doing or engage in any kind of self-assessment that I, the quintessentially pseudo-self-aware, twenty-something New Yorker, would normally have done. I just did what I had to do, just so I could survive and move on. Am I making sense to you? Maybe you get it - I don't know.
Then, at 12:30 a.m., as I was frantically searching for that ONE PIECE OF CRUCIAL EVIDENCE that could make or break the case, I got the e-mail that every lawyer waits for: Please stop working, if you are working, and come to my office if you are currently in the building. I raced down the stairs, my head matching my pace -- I think I slipped on a step because my ankle hurt for a few days thereafter.
And there, in the partner's office, I learned that trial was being adjourned and we could go home and wait for further instructions.
The next few hours were a blur: my colleagues and I all went drinking. I typically do not drink, and when I do, I try to drink very little. Alcohol has few positive effects on me.
It's at this point I should say that most people would feel an overwhelming rush of relief. The vise of stress around the muscles should have then relax its awesome grip. Trial was officially stayed and the legal team could relax. For a short while. Until the next month.
But, instead of relishing the freedom, for the following four, five, six days, I became a puddle of anxiety and a master of asking the Six Questions: what, who, where, why, when, and how.
Examples:
What the hell am I doing?
What the hell am I doing?
Where do I want to go?
Why am I working this hard (and for what)?
When am I finally going to do something I want to do?
And how, in the name of all holy Things, am I going to get there?
I had the quintessential "What the fuck am I doing here" crisis that so many newborn yuppies have had, and let me tell you, it is one lonely experience.
So, what did I do? I played the game of "I used to." I used to be go to museums and galleries. I used to go hear bands play at various "not-so-indie" indie venues. I used to sit at cafes and read Ishiguro or Dostoyevsky or the latest Nora Roberts nonsense I used to crave for. And, as expected, the endless "I used to's" drove me insane.
Now, I'm sitting here trying to figure out what to do next. I don't know where I am. But I need to before I find myself being swept back in the torrent.
