A Leave Of Absence
Keating Sherwin photo (c) Elizabeth Waterman
Keating Sherwin photo (c) Elizabeth Waterman
It’s been 9 years since I stopped writing the blog. Why stop? The stories never ended, the lifestyle carried on swingingly... but I was an addict, a self proclaimed workaholic. I was proud, smug even. I’d selected the very best of all the addictions; one that slid under even the most advanced of radars. Like all addictions, I constantly needed more.
My career advanced and I began working 17 to 20 hours a day; there was no time left to have a life and write about it. So I switched gears, throwing myself into the work as it came, climbing the ladder of success as a budding stylist. Music videos, short films, top tier editorial spreads, New York editor for a Canadian indie publication, styling top models, celebrities, launching a creative agency, a not-for-profit foundation, a private members club... I was in my mid-twenties and my resume read like I was 45. All the while my personal life provided another level of distraction, still devious and deliciously scandalous as ever.
Not only did the workaholism sneak by undetected but people praised me for it commending me on my work ethic and dedication, for my commitment to the job and ability to take on so much at once, wear so many hats, fill so many roles.
A master of disguise, I hid my addiction even from myself until I was so deep in, so broken, that there was no denying it. If I didn’t change I would die and as I approached my 29th birthday I knew I had about three years left if I was lucky.
The men, the women, the work, the parties, the uppers and downers (prescribed and unprescribed); a delicate balance keeping afloat the sinking ship that was my physical and mental well-being. A new level of exhaustion was beginning to sink in and it was looking like I may never bounce back.
No amount of sleep could make up for all the sleepless nights. That last summer in New York I was pulling one to three all-nighters a week, having launched a new business, still consulting for another client and producing a runway show for New York fashion week. Each day I struggled further to perform basic human functions.
I was smoking half an ounce of weed a week just to round out the edges from the daily 80 mgs of Adderall I was taking to function; a volume well beyond the scope of sorting out the ADHD that persisted. On top of that, a new Doctor had come to the conclusion that if the one antidepressant wasn’t working I should probably add a second to the mix just to “get level”.
New York had always been home, even before I ever stepped foot on the hot dark pavement. Nine years later I knew if I wanted to live I’d have to leave. For the first time in my entire life I wanted to live more than I wanted to die. It was time to push pause on New York.