I am probably in the worst occupation for a middle-aged, bipolar woman with depression and alcoholism: reporter at a daily newspaper. I live with perpetual deadlines. I must be creative and productive under pressure. I am constantly bombarded with the sound of police scanners, telephones, reporters and editors hashing out stories. I don’t write happy stories. The people I write about have either done something wrong, had something wrong done to them, were caught doing something wrong or witnessed something go wrong. Sometimes it seems they all want to yell at me. Sometimes I wish I covered golf or fishing. 

At ground zero during the November 2000 election recount, I developed a muscle spasm in my left eye. By March 2001 I was in the hospital with pneumonia, exhausted after weeks of reporting about hanging and pregnant chads. Speaking of pregnant, I worked 12-hour days as the lead reporter on the William Kennedy Smith rape case – pregnant and stupid enough to miss my last trimester check-ups rather than miss a day in court. I gave birth 10 days after the verdict. 

I do not have an off-switch.

Of course if my illnesses could speak, they would tell you that I have the perfect job. Little Miss Bipolar would tell you how exhilarating journalism is – your mind has to race to keep up with what is going on and the constant stream of tension and anger is so invigorating! Mr. Alcoholic would remind you that every good journalist has a bottle in the drawer and every good newspaper has a bar across the street. And my depression would tell you how grateful she is for the endless supply of stress, sleep-deprivation and racing thoughts – washed down with a stiff one after deadline.

I have been committing journalism for so long – almost 30 years – that this lifestyle, pace and drama seem normal to me. I don’t respect my stress because I don’t recognize it as stress. It’s my life. I am used to it. But that does not mean it is right or good. It isn’t. I learned that after my last major depression three years ago. Just because a behavior or way of thinking is comfortable does not mean it is healthy. When I learned this it was as though the clouds had parted and I could see what an utter idiot I had been. I had been holding the hand that held me down. 

I am still an investigative reporter. I still love my job. My boss still tells me to go home. I still get yelled at. Today I know there is a very, very fine line between loving what you do and letting that love kill you. I can’t always see that line and sometimes I just ignore it.  But I know that line is there. Some days, that is the best I can do.

Comments

This post currently has 5 comments/trackbacks.
You can read the comments or leave your own thoughts.

Trackbacks

Prof.Lakshman (May 8, 2009)

Hyblis (May 13, 2009)

    Last reviewed: 7 May 2009