On Playing Finite Games Against My Will

Will work stress me out forever?

Whenever I think about making money, a radio station clicks on in my mind.

It plays the same track 24/7: a sustained, whooshing white noise—something like the sound you’d hear standing at the base of a waterfall—that makes coherent thought difficult.

When I stop thinking about money, it dies down. Start again, it cranks back up.

Some might call it anxiety.

I have dealt with the white noise as I have done with most of my “mental health" challenges: willfully and ineffectively. 

My preferred treatment consists of repeated, uncontrolled exposure therapy—a proprietary blend of CBT, adrenaline and a “walk it off” attitude.

Here’s how it works: I identify the trigger and its source. I take some notes (mostly variations of “Do better”). Finally, I expose myself to the trigger repeatedly, day after day for several years, until I’ve mastered my fear.

So far, the results of this method have proven inconclusive. 

Finite game #1: money

I spent a good portion of the years 2021 - 2023 bowing out of games I couldn’t win, situations that were quietly destroying me.

• Living in New York City: game over. 

• Cultivating relationships with unsafe people: done. 

• Forcing myself to do things I hate in the name of adulting: no thanks.

In the process, I’ve come to learn that I don’t like working hard at joyless games I never signed up for.

Unfortunately, making money is one of those games. 

Getting paid is simply not fun for me. I don’t get the dopamine hit or whatever you call that spark some people get in their eyes when they talk about a growing bank account.

When I make money, I don’t feel excited or triumphant. Occasionally I feel a small wave of relief, immediately followed by the creeping sensation of cold water rising higher and higher.

My need for resources never ends. My responsibility to ensure survival never ends. It’s no fun, but I can’t stop. If it ends, I end. I’m trapped.

Would things be different if I had a steady paycheck? Maybe, but I doubt it. My anxiety has an existential flavor; seasons of steady work and relative wealth haven’t made a dent in it so far.

What if making money was fun?

Though I’ve never experienced it, I know there is a world in which making money could feel joyful and light—even though it may always be tied to survival. Others experience it. I see the possibility in the corner of my eye. 

In nature, for example. Animals play, at least in part, to practice survival skills. The fierce dichotomy I experience between survival and play doesn’t exist for them. They are wedded together in a mysterious continuum, like pain and pleasure. 

I have been trying to create a world of playful survival for myself. A world in which the thought of making money doesn’t drown me—or at least not quite so quickly.

To that end, I’ve de-constructed and re-constructed my career. I’ve prioritized experimentation and wellbeing. I’ve opened myself up to safe people via coaching, courses, therapy, friendships. I’ve found clients and collaborators who respect and appreciate me deeply.

These changes have made a big difference. I’ve experienced a lot of growth and healing. I enjoy my work and the people I work with more than ever.

And yet, the white noise refuses to die. Every time I think about making money, it still clicks on, loud as ever.

Finite game #2: beauty

One thing I’ve learned in recent years is how important it is to get curious about the very things I don’t want to get curious about. The white noise seems like my enemy, but it is not. What if it’s trying to tell me something?

So I quiet myself and ask it what it wants to tell me. I get an inexplicable answer: “something about trophy wives.”

Trophy wives! There’s a game I find distasteful: marrying for money, competing in beauty pageants, anything that involves trading beauty for income—sitting around looking pretty while men do the work and wield the power.

I’ve always assumed leveraging beauty for survival was at best a foolish strategy. Why bank on a currency you know for sure will decrease in value every year? 

Then there’s the possibility that trading on beauty could make you complicit in the history of objectifying the feminine.

Then there’s the fact that whenever I think about trying to make myself more beautiful, another radio station clicks on.

Such a mess. This is why I’d rather pimp out my brain.

But I must be missing something, something that might help me make sense of my resistance to making money, to creating measurable value.

Perhaps it’s this: I have taken issue with the idea that beautiful is “all” women can be—still-frame humans, non-agentic beings who exist for the pleasure and projection of others. I think that’s a fair concern. But in focusing on beauty’s limits, I have overlooked the obvious.

Trophy wives—women—are more than “just” beautiful, yes. But they are also not less than beautiful. 

In other words, beauty means something. It is doing something. It is worth something. Perhaps more than I give it credit for.

What if being beautiful was enough?

This morning, I thanked my husband David for his patience with my money anxiety.

He’s the one who picks up the slack when I don’t make my income quota. (And I hardly ever make my income quota.) He listens for hours as I process my feelings about work, value, money—from despair to excitement—aloud. 

He has suffered the brunt of its consequences. If anyone has the right to get angry at the white noise (and its source!), it’s him.

After I thanked him, his response came slowly, gently: “Maybe you’re like a tree with flowers. You keep trying and trying to grow mangoes. And there are all these animals hanging out in the branches and enjoying the flowers. But all you see is the lack of mangoes.”

He paused.

"Maybe there will never be fruit. What if that’s ok? What if the most useful thing you can do right now is see the flowers?”

I believe he’s right. What’s the use in trying to be anything other than what I am? The stack of bills on my desk disagrees. How’s a rosy mirror going to keep me alive and out of trouble?

As I spent time reflecting on his words, the white noise quieted enough to let me write this complete (if meandering) essay and following poem. That means something. I’m not sure what, but it’s something.