Dear AP,

When you asked me if I loved what I do for a living, I lied when I said 'yes'. Don't get me wrong: I love the idea of what I do. I have dedicated the last 15 years to turning a hobby into a career, and I'm sort of making a living doing it now. I love the thought of that. But the thing is, my inability to truly enjoy this accomplishment is one of the sources of self hatred in my life. You, and everyone else who asks about my work, seem very happy for me; very pleased that I'm "doing what I love". But, for some cosmically cruel reason, I don't take any real joy in this. On the contrary, it causes a lot of fear.

This is not a "grass is always greener" thing, either. This is everything I hoped it would be. Just, you know, minus the ability to stop and be happy for making it this far. This is what I meant tonight when I vaguely hinted at the idea that I was broken. But I didn't go into it. It would take too much time, and honestly, I can't take the lectures anymore about how I should look at it in a different light, or change my perspective. I'm working on it, but for the time being, my perspective ain't budging.

So no, I don't love this. I know I should, but something in my brain is broken. If you made me choose between being minimally content, or erasing these last 15 years of discipline and hard work, I would erase it in a heartbeat. Zero hesitation. I know that's not what you're supposed to say. You're supposed to be proud of your blood, sweat, and tears. Humble, but proud. I'm neither. I admitted this to one person once, and they actually were slightly angry at me for "wasting this opportunity by feeling empty." So, yeah. I feel angry at me too. This, along with a few other things, have driven me to places in my mind that, frankly, I hope you never find out about.

I wanted to pour my heart out to you when you came by. I wanted to confess that I am an ungrateful mess who is squandering this achievement. You know, when I drove down in June, I didn't tell you that, after catching up with everybody, on the way back to the hotel, I pulled over and sobbed my eyes out on the side of the road. I promised myself I would stop lying about being happy. I promised I would find a tactful way to tell people that I'm not in the best place these days, but I just couldn't. Instead, you all got the same narrative: my hard work is starting to pay off, and I couldn't be happier.

I don't want to lie about these things, but I just don't know how to explain this. Heck, I don't even understand it myself. I want someone to resent and be angry at, but I'm the only one in the crosshairs.

But, at the very least, I wasn't lying tonight when I told you I still enjoy the little things. I do take a small joy in preparing my tea, or going on missions to find exotic fruit in a specialty market, or sitting out on the prairie and watching the airport lights come on in the evening. That was all the truth. I just wish I didn't feel like I have to pretend everything else.

Maybe some day I'll be able to express this. For now, I'll just have to imagine you're reading this, and imagine that you understand.