I’m 36. I’m trying to rebuild my life.

A therapist. A writer. An editor. Two cats.

The Pursuit of Happyness vs. My Life

These days I feel like Will Smith in The Pursuit of Happyness — always running, full of anxiety, and I don’t think I know exactly where I’m running to. Three days a week I’m a therapist. I nod and ask things like, “And how did that make you feel?” The other three days I’m an editor. I cut things and think about commas as if they were the most important thing in the world (they are).

Sometimes I dream that I’m a charismatic editor and artist. It’s so cool. I sip tea slowly and say witty things. I talk about literature and art.
But when I wake up, I realise it hasn’t happened yet, and I wake up in Turkey, in a shrinking economy, begging my cat not to eat my latest manuscript review… I feel like I’m in that scene from The Pianist, in the ruins, crying. Some might think this is a mid-life crisis. I can’t deny that I look in the mirror and cry sometimes, but let’s go deeper.

The guilt of leaving
I am happy editing. I love being an editor.
But the guilt is always there — like I should be in a session listening to someone talk about their Uncle Eric’s drinking habits instead of editing. Why do I feel like I should be listening to someone? Why do I feel guilty when I draw or do my artistic work?

Who is Uncle Eric? Why is he always drinking?

I think the guilt comes from earlier. I remember standing in the doorway, fifteen, while the house fell apart behind me. My family is unstable again — always chaotic. Thousands of problems, none of them was my responsibility.No one said, “This isn’t your responsibility.” So I took it. No safe place to create peacefully, write, read or draw. I remember myself I never wanted to come to home.

Years later, in a therapy session, I had the confidence to ask the important question: ‘’Would I become a therapist if I had the opportunity to write and draw instead of solving problems?’’ My relationships, friendships, romantic relationships I always remember myself I am trying to solve the problems.

You may be shocked to hear how many therapists chose this profession because of their role in the family. Some of us come from chaotic, depressive family backgrounds and began this work early on, even as small children, thinking, “How can I heal my parents?’’

I don’t hate being a therapist. I love my job. But I know there is something bigger in me, something more artistic.

So I am rebuilding my life. It is not easy. Sometimes I get scared. Sometimes I feel a pain in my stomach. Sometimes I feel proud of myself. Sometimes I find myself at 3am looking at the ceiling, wondering what the hell I am doing.

Therapist vs Editor (A Guide)

Both jobs are basically the same.

Nobody pays on time. Ever.

Exes come up. Therapists mention them gently. Editors do it accidentally. Writers bury them in fiction and call them Jane. Jane is always an ex. Beware Jane.

People hate feedback. Telling someone their writing is confusing is just as traumatic as telling them their childhood was a lie.

Your words matter. Even if you’re talking about a hamburger, someone will say, ‘’Wow, that really touched me.’’

And finally:

In therapy, you cry slowly. In editing, you cry harder.

How it’s going
This career change wasn’t planned. It happened the way most things in my life do: suddenly, and slightly inconveniently.
It’s like falling in love.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not stable.
But it’s mine.

At least my cats haven’t eaten it yet.

I’m planning to move to a different country by the end of the year. A new page.