I never used to have anxiety. It’s kind of new. It started for me around 2011, when I was working for an ad agency in Houston. It wasn’t my first agency job, but for some reason it had a bigger impact on me than the others.

The place was a small, boutique shop, aimed mostly at creating marketing materials for clients in the oil and gas industry, and in the medical industry. O&G and hospital systems are the biggest business sectors in the Greater Houston Area. You don’t work in marketing without working for them, at some point.

This little agency wanted to be rebellious and creative, though. It was part of the reason I was attracted to them. And I went in hard—I made demands for salary, for remote work, for benefits. I gave them my background and experience, and we all seemed to like each other.

Here’s the thing about working for an agency—any agency, in any creative field—there are certain unreasonable expectations.

Work/Life balance? Forget it. It’s a marketing talk point, not a real thing. Because every agency I ever worked for had certain unwritten rules that superseded the jargon you found on their job listings. And the number one rule was, “We own you.”

I’m not even exaggerating here. Throughout the agency part of my career, I had employers tell me all sorts of absurd things. One agency sent a memo to everyone on staff to tell us that we were not allowed to participate in creative things outside of the office, such as participating in the 48-Hour Film Festival or exhibiting work in museums or art shows, or even writing novels or short stories. “We’re paying you for your creativity, so if you’re doing creative work outside of the office, you’re stealing.”

I kid you not, that’s a real quote.

That bothered me, but I gave it the middle finger at the time, and carried on. Because it was a ridiculous thing to say, and it was unenforceable besides. I mean… I didn’t sign any contract saying I couldn’t create outside of work. And even if I did… sue me. There are some things contract law can’t mandate. I’m betting that’s one of them. I was willing to roll those dice, anyway.

The boutique agency, though, somehow they got to me in a different way.

There is, in the agency world, a long standing tradition of creatives being effectively chained to their desks. There’s an expectation that everyone will gleefully arrive early and work late. Very early. Very late. And on weekends. On holidays. I was once asked if I could come straight to the office after a family member’s funeral.

That’s the kind of place this was. And it didn’t seem to matter that I was generating content faster than anyone could ever reasonably expect a writer to produce it. The fact that I was checking in at 6AM but leaving at 5PM was “concerning.”

Even when I was getting up and starting my work day at 4AM, from my home office, then zipping to work to be there by 6AM, and working through lunch every day, it was still “concerning” that I wasn’t there past 5PM. My explanation that I had a wife and home responsibilities and a life outside the office was rejected as “not committed enough.”

So, eventually, they fired me for not being enough of a team player. And they cited that I had asked for more money as something that offended them as well. They had agreed to all of this, of course, when I came onboard. But it was my fault, and I was greedy.

The thing about me—and I think this may apply to a lot of creatives—is that I take criticism hard. I have a very solid work ethic. And I produce. A lot. My writing output is easily quadruple that of most writers. And I do it again and again, every day, always. But when people tell me that I’m letting them down, it haunts me. It kills me. Because I have this work ethic built into my DNA.

I will work on those weekends and holidays and funeral days. I do work. Work often consumes me.

That’s no way to live, I’m just putting it out there that it’s how my life has been for a very long time.

I started feeling anxiety while I was working for that little agency. I would wake up in the middle of the night, feeling so much dread and existential horror, all I wanted was for God to kill me. I was never suicidal. I could never go to that. It’s not in me. But I was fine with God giving me the mercy of sweet, sweet oblivion.

I no longer feel like that. But it feels like that time in my life altered my DNA somehow. Because before that experience I could shake off stress and just live, feeling happy with my life. And since then, I… can’t.

I don’t want to give the wrong impression. I have joy in my life. I love that I have become—am continuously becoming—the author I always dreamt of being. I have good family, good friends. We’re starting over in a new community, so there’s some room to grow in all these areas. But I have a good life.

The anxiety is just something I can’t quite figure out how to get rid of.

I study this. I study philosophy, at least, and I’m always looking for the cure for this. If I ever find it, I’ll let you know. But for the most part, I am continuously suffering from this nagging sense that refuses to resolve into anything solid or concrete, that I can actually deal with.

It has no cause. It has no target. It’s simply there.

I can’t even describe it in terms that make sense. Sometimes I feel like I’m “bad” or “doing something wrong.” Sometimes I feel like a fraud. Sometimes I feel like bad things are happening, or about to happen. Sometimes I feel like no one likes me or loves me or wants me around. Sometimes I feel like I can’t relate to anyone or anything, no one understands me, I don’t even understand myself.

A lot of the time I feel like a failure. Like I screwed up, missed out on all the opportunities I had.

The thing is, my rational mind tells me the truth about this: None of this stuff is real. There’s nothing here for me to be afraid of. I didn’t screw up. I didn't fail. I am loved and respected.

But this isn’t something rational. And it won’t be reasoned away.

And so every single day, I start over. Every day, I try to figure it out, I try to find the path out of this muck. And I think back on the time before, when I never felt afraid or felt dread or felt like I was worthless. I remind myself that those are the lies, and that the truth is something brighter, lighter, more nourishing.

It’s a work in progress.

Anyway, there’s no real point to this post. I don’t have any words of wisdom to offer on this. But maybe you feel like this, too. So, we feel it together. And this post… it’s therapy. For me. Maybe for you.

Maybe, one day, all this anxiety just stops.

I’d be very grateful.