How do you describe yourself?

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In my early twenties there came a point where I had totally lost my grip on reality. That is, life as I know it now. Back when I was a PR girl living in the eastern suburbs of Sydney I didn’t know there was a life outside of the office, beyond the commute, external to the weekends that were spent dreading Monday. My soul was drowning in a schedule that had spun its way in repetitive cycles around my life and bundled my grey existence neatly into heartbreaking seven day packages. Sound familiar?

Here’s a brief outline of my existence:

On Monday mornings I’d burst through my front door ignoring the beautiful ocean across the street and straight to the nearest cafe with the unfriendly, emotionally unavailable barista. With my a triple-shot coffee in hand I’d drag my self to the office to smash away at the keyboard with feverish ferocity. Busy. On Wednesday nights I’d meet a friend* to down a bottle of wine and complain about how busy I was while chain smoking to calm the nerves. Busy. On Friday afternoons I’d stay at the office until 9pm, because I had far too much to do to leave with everyone else. Busy. I’d slip on my heels, chow down a block of chocolate for dinner, buy a packet of cigarettes and head to my favourite tequila bar to chat with strangers about my crazy week and muse about how there just aren’t enough hours in the day, or enough days in the week. Busy. Saturdays were spent inside, on my laptop, filling my day with work. Busy. By the time Sunday came around, I’d try to make up for all that I could have done on Saturday, so I’d go grocery shopping, work out, to laundry, scour the social pages for press, clean my apartment and prepare my work inbox for Monday.

I literally only had one way of defining myself.

“Just. So. Fucking. Busy!”

I’d bump into a friend. My parents would call. I’d chat with my waiter.  With each and every opportunity that was presented to me in conversation, the only words I could manage to summon about myself, my soul, about me as a humanbeing with complex feelings and a contemplative conscience… was to mutter on about how busy I was.

*Nine times out of ten, the friend wasn’t even there.