Workaholism – a Tragedy Not a Joke
I’m sure you’ve heard someone called, or perhaps called someone yourself, “a workaholic.” This term is usually used to describe a hardworking, high-energy person who continually keeps busy at work and/or home. People wink or roll their eyes when talking about this person. Some of us imply our tacit approval or envy for what this person accomplishes. Others criticize to justify not having the same motivation or inner drive of the person they label. Most people who “seem” to work constantly are just passionate about what they do. This doesn’t necessarily make them workaholics.
I define a workaholic is a person who places the importance of his or her “work” above the welfare of themselves or their family.
“Ridiculous,” you say? ” “How can working to provide a better life for oneself or one’s family be a bad thing?” “How many fathers would love to have such a man marry their daughter?” “It’s the American way ? work hard to get ahead! Right?”
Well as a practicing workaholic, I used all of the above reasons to explain my selfish behavior. My justifications were really just self-serving excuses.
I wore my work wounds like badges of honor: one nine month stretch without a day off, getting my first full time job at age 10, literally working around the clock on occasion, living away from my family for months on end while staying in a motel, never taking a vacation, traveling 300 days in one year for work, always doing more than anyone else in the company and always doing more at work than ever was expected.
Living in workaholism is a lonesome and miserable existence. Resentments are never ending. We do not feel appreciated at work or at home. We have no tolerance for the mistakes of others, yet we are crushed at the slightest criticism of ourselves. We seldom have the monetary success to reflect the effort expended. Misguided, we may think our goal is money while in fact we are escaping into work. We have little, if any, participation in our family’s life, yet we are critical of all they do. We strike at those closest to us quickly using mean phrases such as, “After all I do for you.” Ultimately we find ourselves divorced, childless, in bad health, spiritually bankrupt or drawn to another destructive addition such as alcohol or drug abuse. In my case it was compulsive gambling. Like any false prophet, one day there is awareness that the burning black hole inside the workaholic can no longer be cooled with the God of Work alone.
Why would someone choose this way of living? I’m not so sure it is a conscious choice at all. Like any addiction, at first it is rewarding (fun), then it is rewarding but with problems, and finally nothing but problems. By the time we see ourselves as how we really are, our lives and the lives of those we love have been inexorably changed forever.
Many workaholics will confide that they worked in a similar manner that their parents drank alcohol. Perhaps it’s the misguided determination, “not to live that way,” that sends us on a chart-less course.
Mine was such a case. Although I was never physically abused, alcohol kept my family unnecessarily poor. At a very early age, I found work as a road to more respectable appearances. At age 10, I got my first job and worked 48 hours per week. My $24 weekly paycheck purchased nice school clothes and allowed me to buy special Christmas presents for everyone in my family. This lead to another dangerous and faulty conclusion ? work provides you money, money allows you to do “good” things for people, and people then will show their love for you.
Feeling shame and fear of exposure for the manner in which my family lived, my self-esteem was poor at best. Because of this I feared conflict or criticism. My first demanding boss (I was now 12 and worked up to $1 per hour!) was so gruff and unreasonable that I surmised doing more than was expected was way to avoid trouble.
My next misguided lesson came from the same employer. After spending a year doing the work of two people for the purpose of staying under the radar, I was given a raise and promotion. The raise was nice, the promotion a challenge but the praise�that was the drug I craved and at least for a short time received.
My next deadly weapon came as my youthful career continued to advance. I wasn’t old enough to drive a car but I was given the keys to a thriving business and made the unofficial assistant manager to the owner. To avoid the complicated calculation of the many hours of overtime I worked, I was offered a salary. Although it actually cost me money, it was one of the happiest moments of my life. I remember one day when my grateful boss to the side and given yet another raise. My voice cracked and I said, “Please don’t. I can’t work any harder than I already do.” While other 15 year olds were enjoying their summer vacation and possibly working a part time job, I was working 80 hours per week.
I transferred my work obsession to my schoolwork. If I was typing (remember typewriters?) a school paper and made an error, I would retype the page instead of erasing or using Whiteout. I quickly earned the praise and approval of my teachers and the envy of my peers. Ironically, I began to feel unworthy and would quickly diminish any recognition given me by others.
I had a choice of seven scholarships to go to college, and went to the school of my dreams. It was a disaster. Unlike high school a large university provides neither recognition nor instant feedback. The movie, “The Paper Chase,” comes to mind. After spending a year to impress his teaching idol, the student, “Hart,” finds himself alone in an elevator with this professor. Hart tries to convey his appreciation to the teacherâÂ?¦but the teacher has no idea who Hart even is.
To placate my emptiness, I took an unnecessary part time job. This job almost instantly became a full time job and soon a management position. In addition to trying to take 21 semester hours (six more than recommended), I was again working over 40 hours per week. It didn’t take much inducement for me to choose the enticement of promotion over the commitment to getting a degree, a decision that has haunted me all of my life.
I married a woman with three little boys. Soon we had a fourth. When my new family didn’t respond instantly like good employees, I retreated into more and more work.
By chance, an unholy alliance was formed when Ken the workaholic, found Company X that was owned by a tyrant who used people like disposable diapers. Did I exercise my free will and leave this unhealthy relationship? No. I spent the next 13 years trying to “do that one thing,” that would win sincere approval.
My four boys graduated from four different high schools in four different states as I took transfer after transfer trying to prove my own value. My wife retreated into a lifetime of migraine headaches.
And then one day, as is the case with any drug, my escape quit working and I was just plain tired. Perhaps “empty” would be a better way to explain it. Another hard working run had completed and the praise and reward I so badly craved was once again withheld. My family had lived for many, many years with out my mental, and usually my physical, presence. Once I decided I wanted to be part of things, “things” didn’t necessarily want me. My family had been alone so long, I had made myself an outsider.
My emptiness led me humbly to a racetrack. There I found that there are worse things than losing, there’s winning. I didn’t go there to be a “big shot.” However, winning brought attention and counterfeit admirationâÂ?¦and I loved it! Suddenly the fire within me was once again cooled. Winning doesn’t last forever and I crossed many lines to maintain the image I so dearly enjoyed. I craved chaos, and balancing the life of a workaholic with that of a compulsive gambler fit the bill perfectly. “It was fun, it was fun with problems, and then it was just problems.” My evil twin addictions led me to the brink of suicide. It took an intervention and the threat of serious legal consequences to force me into a program of recovery.
Am I “cured?” I don’t believe a person in the grip of a physical or psychological addiction is ever cured. Am I “better?” I am indeed. I work daily to face myself for what I am, not perfect but not a mistake, not necessarily the winner but always in the race, not a perfect father but at least a present father and not a Saint, but at least the best human being I can be for today.
The next time you call someone a workaholic, do not do so with envy, do not do so with sarcasm and please do not pass judgment on this person. Simply hope you are wrong and pray for this person in case you are right.
