Becoming a full-time freelancer is like slicing your wrist open and diving head first into a pool of half-starved piranha who all know you’ll happily gave your life blood for a dollar.
Driven by mindless terror of not getting any work I happily took on every single job that came my way.
Who needs sleep anyway?
A box of Dunhills and a bottomless mug of tea is all that I need. Hah!
Eventually as I sat in front of my doctor convinced I was dying of a dread disease, I came face to face with some common sense that has seemingly managed to elude me for 36 years. Know your limits.
He told me off like I was a sullen child and told me I was suffering from burn-out and exhaustion.
He topped it off with an order to take a week off.
I looked at him from the fog of misery as though he’d suddenly grown two heads and a wart on his nose. What part of freelancer was he struggling with? A week off? How?
I went home fuming with indignant anger.
My mother gives me common sense, my doctor is supposed to give me pharmaceuticals to make it all better.
Small boy aged 7 looked at me with concern and said, “Mummy, sometimes you just have to say no.”
Damn that common sense.
The gene have skipped a generation.
So, I asked for help and I set some clients free.
I got some sleep.
And some food.
And I’m taking a week off to go to the beach.