I have made it through the weekend. I write this early Monday morning. I have finished not one but two enormous freelance deadlines, working more hours in the day than I normally do during the week at work, dragging myself around, forcing myself to keep going, because when someone says the deadline is Monday I sure do take it seriously, that Monday. I could have asked for more time, but I just wanted to get them over with and out of my hands.

These were two projects that were outstanding from before I took my new job, promises made from my previous existence that I had to meet in this one. If I say I am going to do something, I should do it, even if the circumstances have changed. So I did. Now one project will have to be revised—there is always at least one revision—and there is one more contract I signed months and months ago (and cashed the check) so I have to make that deadline in September. Then I am done. I hope.

There is something addictive about freelance. Especially when you’re having a difficult time keeping afloat and spiraling toward financial doom and you know a freelance project will keep it at bay a bit longer. These writing projects especially; they don’t seem so tough from the outset. But I don’t think it’s healthy to do this. I don’t think it’s good to always be working. My one job should be enough, and if it’s not enough then I should change the way I live to accommodate. I don’t really know what kind of life I am having right now; I am too numb from the weekend to think of it.

Four more days and then it’s Friday (again). I hope to make this one count.