You know that feeling when your phone vibrates on a Friday night and your stomach just drops? Like you already know it’s someone wanting a piece of you. I was literally standing by the trunk of my car, throwing the cooler in for the lake trip, when the text came through. It’s always like that. You think you finally have a second to breathe, to be a person, and then—BAM. Someone needs something. And because you’re you, because you’ve spent fifty years being the "reliable" one, you can’t just let it go to voicemail. You just can’t. It was Rick. Senior designer. The guy who spends more time at lunch than he does at his desk but he’s got the title so I have to listen. He tells me the client "had a change of heart" and the whole project—EVERYTHING I spent three weeks on—needs to be redone by Monday morning. He says he’d do it himself but he’s already halfway to his beach house and "you’re so much faster at the layout stuff anyway." Faster. Right. That’s just code for you’re the one who’s gonna sit in the dark while I drink martinis. He didn't even ask. He just said "Thanks, I knew I could count on you to be a team player." I stood there in the driveway for ten minutes just staring at the grass. My daughter Sarah was already in the passenger seat, looking at her phone, waiting to go see her grandparents. My dad... he’s not doing great. He’s got the memory stuff starting and I don't know how many more of these reunions he’s even gonna be "there" for, you know? But all I could think about was Rick. I’m 48 years old and I’m a "junior" because I went back to school late and if I get labeled as "uncooperative" or "not a fit," I’m done. Who’s gonna hire me at my age if I lose this? How do I pay for Dad’s home? How do I help Sarah with her tuition? You feel like you’re holding up a whole building and if you move one inch, the whole thing crushes you. So I told them to go without me. I lied and said I had a stomach bug. I watched my own car pull out of the driveway without me. It’s 2am now on Sunday and I’ve been staring at this glowing screen so long my eyes feel like they’ve been rubbed with sandpaper. "Azure blue." "Modern aesthetics." Who gives a damn? It’s all just lines and colors that don't mean anything. I’m sitting here in a quiet house eating cold cereal over a keyboard while my whole family is probably sitting around the fire right now telling stories I’m not gonna be in. You ever feel like a ghost? Like you’re haunting your own life? My mom called me twice yesterday. I didn't pick up. I couldn't. What was I gonna say? "Sorry Ma, I'm making a logo for a company that sells organic dog treats instead of seeing my father"? I’d just start crying and she’d get worried and then I’d have to fix THAT too. Because that’s the job. You’re the one who fixes things. You’re the one who stays calm. You’re the one who SACRIFICES everything so nobody else has to feel a single bit of discomfort. I mean I don't even—whatever. It doesn't matter. The worst part is I know exactly how Monday goes. Rick is gonna walk in, take my files, present them like he stayed up all weekend, and I’m gonna sit there and nod. I’ll say "No problem, Rick" when he thanks me in front of the boss. And the boss will think I’m such a hard worker, such a "good sport." A good sport. That’s what they call people they can use up until there’s nothing left. You spend your whole life making sure the people around you are okay and then you wake up and you’re just... empty. Just a shell of a person with a "great eye for typography." I keep typing things and then hitting backspace. I wanted to write a post about how much I hate this job, but then I got scared someone would find out it was me. Even here. Even anonymous. You’re so used to being what everyone else needs that you don’t even know how to speak the truth anymore. You’re scared of your own shadow. I’m sitting here in the dark and I’m actually WORRIED that I’m being "unfair" to Rick. Can you believe that? He’s on a boat and I’m worried about his feelings. I’m pathetic. Sometimes you just want to scream into a pillow until your lungs hurt. But I can't even do that because the neighbors might hear and then I’d have to apologize for the noise. I have to finish this "brand identity" package before 8am. My back is screaming and I think I’ve had five cups of coffee and I just want to go to sleep for a hundred years. But the screen is still white. The cursor is just blinking at me. Waiting. Always waiting for me to do something for somebody else. Back to work, I guess. It’s all I’m good for anyway.