I did something out-of-character last week, and a funny thing happened: It started to affect the rest of my decisions. As the week turned into the weekend, I found myself contemplating my attitude ((or lack thereof)) when it comes to the idea of risk.

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I have trouble making decisions–any kind of decision. I’m as likely to spend the same amount of time choosing whether I’m going to eat yogurt or cereal for breakfast as I am between which television or laptop I’m going to buy. And then comes the intense questioning. Is this really the right choice? What would my mother say about it? What would my best friend pick? Have I thought about this? What about this? What if this is a mistake? What if I’m attacked by wolves–will I still be okay with the choice I made? 

It’s not always fun to be inside my brain.

But when you strip down all of the intense torture–I mean, overthinking–it comes down to a simple thing: I am uncomfortable with the idea of risk. So much to the point that I avoid it as much as possible, in any type of situation. I think it’s likely because I convince myself that possible negatives aren’t possible at all–if given the opportunity to arise, they’re pretty much guaranteed. But according to therapists and psychiatrists, this notion isn’t all that uncommon for someone who has Generalized Anxiety Disorder ((GAD)), even when it’s controlled.

Anyway, back to last week.

After five months of unemployment ((which was a blast, let me tell you)), I found myself employed with a financial services firm about half an hour away. The job was listed as a temporary proofreading job, and was slated to run from January through the end of April. Without getting into too much detail, aside from my really fantastic fellow temps/coworkers, I absolutely hated this job. The work was straight-up awful and I was not a fan of management at all.

It wasn’t for my lack of trying, or that I was bad at the job. But every day, I dreaded getting out of bed, the drive, the walk through the warehouse into the office, the never-ending inbox of work, and every single assignment I took. And I noticed that things oddly seemed to go downhill once I took this job. I got into a car accident and had trouble with my rental. I started getting migraines. I made it to the second round of interviews for a full-time position I really, really, really wanted and was really, really, really qualified for, only to be told the company was choosing another candidate. My overtime pay was unbelievably taxed. I was so tired at night, I couldn’t even jot down notes, let alone write anything at all.

Maybe the universe is telling me I should quit this job, I thought. Ha ha ha. As if I could ever do that. What the hell, universe? Don’t you know I have RENT TO PAY? My cat needs to eat! I need to eat! What about my cell phone? The student loan payments I’m so far behind on? Who cares about misery–what about all that?!

So, I stuck with it, misery and setbacks and all. And then came what I like to call my own personal creeping death: The realization. What I mean by this is the realization that I am not doing what I want to do with my life. That my work should at least fulfill me a little, even if it isn’t ideal. That I should enjoy my role, even if it’s only slightly. That I’m doing something that might make some kind of lasting impression–something that might make someone enjoy his or her life a little bit more.

That I didn’t fight my way through getting my bachelor’s just to ignore the rules of grammar and make sure the formatting is correct for something that next to no one is going to read and is going to wind up shredded in the garbage in a few months.

After a few final straws and a monumental amount of overthinking, I did it. I chose a Friday and sent my “supervisor” a message over the office chat: Please note that next Wednesday will be my last day in the office. Even I couldn’t believe it as I read over the words. But then, something awesome happened.

I felt a huge wave of relief. I actually enjoyed that weekend, instead of dreading the idea that Monday would be here before I blinked. I slept really well. In fact, on the morning of my last Wednesday in the office, I woke up early and even felt a little excited.

After playing phone tag with an HR rep from a company who’d reached out to me, I scheduled an interview with a new prospective job, and then a second interview. I felt almost none of my normal pre-interview panic, and when the publisher of the magazine asked me “On a scale of 1-10, how good do you think your writing is?” I answered, with almost no hesitation, “It’s a 10.” And later, proceeded to tell the interviewers that “I’m not intimidated by learning how to write in a new style; growth and transformation are part of a career in writing. This is what I’m good at.”

Overconfident? Maybe. But I legitimately felt those things at the time. And what did I have to lose?

Speaking with my mother later in the week, I said something that I’ve never said aloud, especially not to her. “Maybe I don’t even want to work for them. I’m not sure. All I know is that I feel much better right now, and I don’t think I want to take a job just because I’m desperate for a paycheck ever again.” Is that a realistic statement? Maybe not. Everyone needs to eat. But it felt good to come to a realization.

As I walked to my car on my last day at the office, half-listening to the NoSleep podcast, I thought about something I’d read in an interview. I want to say it was with Stephen King or J.K. Rowling, but this writer had said something along the lines of, keep working, keep creating, keep writing–“the money will come.” I took this for what it meant–I might not be able to expect gazillions of dollars, but my talents will provide me with a way to support myself, and it was important not to forget that.

I woke up this morning relieved that I didn’t have to make the 50-minute drive in traffic or shiver under an active air conditioning vent all day long in a windowless office. Instead, I got up, checked my email, started the blog I’ve been thinking about for weeks, took a look at the assignment board for my freelance job, and thought about the time I would have to get back to the one thing that I was letting avoidance of risk take away from me–my own work. The writing and editing that means the most to me.

Will I have to collect unemployment? Maybe. Will freelancing get tedious? Possibly. Will I get frustrated applying for the copy editing jobs I want the most? Well, that’s already happened.

But it’s okay to make a decision–to exercise a choice when you realize that there IS one. It’s okay to give yourself a break sometimes. The money will come.