I am a workaholic.
I validate my existence with work. Be it home educating the girls, washing the dishes, or earning a living.
If I don’t work, I don’t feel that I have any worth. None at all.
Since I no longer have bosses or a management structure of any kind to confer worth upon the work I do in the form of praise, positive assessments, awards, promotions or bonuses, the only measurement tool I have is money. If I work hard enough, if the work I do is good enough, I will get paid. If I get paid, I have worth.
If not, I don’t.
While my head tells me that, logically, this is folly, the rest of me blunders on.
I need to work.
Work supercedes every other thing I need to do – family, friends, social commitments, health, sleep – everything is secondary to my secret obsession. Except it’s not so secret.
I have no idea how to break the cycle.