Shortly after that conversation–the one about being dead inside–my life was about to unravel.
Onstage in New York at my new employer’s annual conference, I performed a mini play with the CEO to launch our acquired product as part of their (now our) expanded software platform.
“Oh no, a storm? How long will my order take to get here?” says the CEO, playing the part of a disgruntled customer.
“Well Frank,” I confide, “You don’t even need to check with me–because now we can send you automatic updates every time something changes for your order.” I pause. “How does that sound?”
This launch choreograpy had been months in the making. At least a dozen versions of the script had come and gone. I argued and cajoled with stakehodlers, determined to put the product I had spent six years building on the best possible footing at its new home. As we finished the presentation and I stepped offstage, the CEO turned to his next announcement.
I stood backstage. I had built it, sold it, launched it. If any moment of my life was the apotheosis of my hopes while sitting in my dad’s smelly car, it was this moment. I looked out the small window onto 5th Avenue, feeling nothing but a quiet ache in my chest, wanting to be somewhere, anywhere else.
The quiet ache was a kind of relief. “Good, perhaps I’m not totally dead inside. But tired, very tired.” My body had begun to ache in inscrutable ways: my joints hurt, my chest felt tight and my digestion slowed. When I got home to San Francisco, the feeling was even worse. I felt I was suffocating. I packed my bags without knowing where I would go, but knowing that I did have to go.
new gods 