So, was this a sabbatical or just a chaotic break?

On December 14th I announced I was leaving real estate to explore new opportunities. I sent a blast announcement via social media and email to my past clients and my sphere. What I didn’t say in that message is that I was taking a break for my own mental health. I was burned out, I was exhausted, I was fighting through a depressive episode, I was spending a lot of time looking at career paths I might enjoy and, while I was good at real estate, I no longer found any joy doing it. 

My plan was to take January and February to just relax, focus on introspection, detox from my phone and email. Maybe read a book, take some more photos, go on long, relaxing walks.

My kids showed up on December 18th. We had a wonderful holiday that included bringing Grandpa to our new house for the first (and only) time. The knots in my shoulders started to unwind and I could feel some level of stress abating. The kids flew back to their respective homes for New Years, Pete and I had friends over for the first New Years Eve ever, Pete headed back to work on January 3rd. 2022 was going to be a great year.

My sabbatical officially began. 

I did a lot of journaling at that time. Spent time reflecting on whether I wanted to give law school another chance, took a million career assessments, re-evaluated our budget so I could see just how long we could live on one salary. We didn’t truly have enough money for me to step away from my career for any length of time but I figured a two month sabbatical would cost less than inpatient care if I had a breakdown.  I did a lot of planning. Did I do any relaxing outside of my daily photo wanders? No. 

Plans are stupid. Looking back on my calendar helped me to reflect on the timeline of the chaos.

On January 6th Grandpa was taken to the hospital for a bowel obstruction. He’d spend 31 days in the hospital after surgery in August for the same issue so…On January 7th he was back at the Veterans Home because he was a truly lucky man who seemed to have far more than just nine lives.

I scheduled time with a career coach, I put together a resume, I started getting trained to be a domestic violence volunteer. Did I relax? Once again, no. 

On January 16th Grandpa Bill was rushed to the hospital via ambulance.  He had emergency surgery, ended up on a vent for two days and, on Tuesday January 19th, he was extubated and we were able to have a short conversation. My last words to him were “I’ll see you this afternoon.” His last words to me were “Bye sweet girl.” Just a couple hours later he started to fail, the nurses said he was going, my mom called and I arrived at the hospital in time to hold his hand as his heart slowed. He died that afternoon.

I leaned into grieving as if it was a job. I read the books I could read, I did the meditations I could do, I went to therapy and I processed the loss of his unconditional love. I went the funeral home with my parents, had a visitation with my cousin, and was determined to stay present for it all but also, I put me and my own stuff that needed addressing on the back burner.

I thought Pete was going to be right beside me in the staying present for it all. In retrospect he should have stayed home from work for the rest of the week but, because it was not his grandfather that died, his school district did not provide any bereavement leave. He took that to mean he shouldn’t grieve this man who was not his blood family. 

Saturday, January 22nd Pete reffed eight basketball games to keep himself busy. Sunday, January 23rd, while I was taking a nap, he binge drank to the point of nearly falling over. I think he drank every day after work that week and probably every day from that point on until his death. I didn’t focus on it very closely because a) I wasn’t pouring alcohol down his throat, b) I was grieving, and c) I was also having my own mental health issues that I was working to ignore/address. I did not have, or make, room for him. 

On January 28th my dad had a prostate biopsy. His PSA had been high for awhile but other more pressing medical issues combined with a pandemic pushed this issue down on the priority list. 

That afternoon we received the news that he had cancer. 

I started the deep dive into reading about prostate cancer as if I could somehow get a medical degree. Turns out you can read, worry, fret and change absolutely nothing about the situation. 

To distract myself from this cavalcade of cosmic bullshit I decided that I would find a way to hide in something that always felt familiar. Work. I started the interview process with a FinTech start up to help them set up their real estate valuation department. Had I done any actual healing from the burnout? Nope.

Throughout, Pete continued to get more and more manic, rambling, delusional. I contacted his oldest daughter on February 17th to share my concerns and scheduled a psychiatrist appointment for the soonest available appointment. I was concerned he was going to harm himself. Due to the shit state of mental health care here (and everywhere) the soonest they could see him was March 4th. 

On March 2nd I accepted a job with the startup. First day was to be March 23rd. 

March 4th’s psychiatrist appointment was a waste of time. He didn’t want to go, when he showed up it was on Zoom instead of in person, and the psychiatrist suggested medication. Pete walked out on the doctor after 20 minutes.

March 17th my dad had a bone scan in Colorado so I decided to join them and then meet up with my cousin afterwards for a night and then Pete would come and meet me on the 18th.  This kicked off the adventures I’ve written about in other posts. I notified my potential future employer on the 18th that my husband was missing so could we bump my start state from the 23rd to April 1st?

He died March 22nd.

I rescinded my acceptance of the job that next day and spent the next week with my children purging my house of the Pete things I didn’t want to see anymore.  I launched myself into #deathproductivity instead of feeling.

On April 20th my dad had surgery to remove his prostate.

When I reflect on the first four months of 2022 I actually find myself laughing at the weekly hits for everyone in my family. My dad joked with someone, in bittersweet fashion, that within just four months he lost his dad, his son-in-law, and his prostate.  

The month of May was the first month where I felt like I was on sabbatical. I finished writing the novel I’d started years ago. I went on a 3400 mile road trip. I started to see in photos that my smile reached my eyes. However, I knew that I’d overstayed my planned days off and my sabbatical was dependent on my husband supporting the basic cost of living with his salary.  Which, obviously, was gone. I got his Colorado teacher’s retirement (but he’d only been there for 14 years) and I’ll get his Nebraska retirement in August (they won’t pay until he hasn’t showed up for work for 120 days…something tells me his ashes couldn’t teach STEM).  He had liquidated his federal prison retirement before we were together (a fact that he never shared). His military benefits were negligible. I might get his Social Security when I’m 65 if I never remarry. He had no life insurance. (Technically…he had some through his work but he needed to wait to die until after August 8th when he’d been there for two years.)

All this is to say…it’s now nearly August. I spent June and most of July ping-ponging between “I need to take some time and actually figure out why I got to breakdown and heal from that…so just relax” and “If you don’t have a job you’re actually worthless” and “I have to find an agent so I can get this book published” and “I cannot have another panic attack when I start looking at job postings” and “How do I win the lottery if I don’t play…”

It wasn’t until I had a conversation with my therapist a few weeks ago about what my brain was doing was trying to remain in chaos. Chaos was familiar. My adrenaline was through the roof so my doctor put me on a medication that helps level that out and, shocker of all shockers, my panic attacks have gone away and I’m feeling more centered, more relaxed, more like I’ve had a break. Almost like I had an eight week sabbatical after a four month chaotic hiatus and I’m finally ready to think about what might be next.

I know I need a job. I know very clearly I don’t want that job to be in real estate. I know very clearly that even with a job I want to find a publisher or self-publish my book. I know that I would love to keep writing on a regular basis and, eventually, not write quite as much about death and stress. 

So, if you’ve made it this far…thank you. I primarily use this blog to navigate my own issues and it helps me track where I am and where I’m going and it gives me an opportunity to ask for help. 

If you know of anyone that is looking to hire someone who is: a former real estate agent, a kick-ass negotiator, a creative problem solver, a skilled writer/marketer, a tech-savvy remote worker please let me know or, better yet, introduce me. If you know anyone in the publishing arena that would be willing to have a conversation about tips/tricks or any agents that want a historical fiction based on my grandmother’s time working at the Prisoner of War camp during WWII, pass them along.  I built my real estate business on referrals and introductions. I imagine that success either in publishing or a new career will come the same way. 

Or, if you just want to be a patron and support my writing you can send me a birthday gift via Venmo (@andrea-myersculhane) and I’ll use all of the funds to support my continued mental health efforts because I definitely never want to get to the point of breakdown again. 

Either way it’s time for this sabbatical to start wrapping up.