I don't mind writing. I like writing. Give me a plot, or a list of information to cover. Tell me how many pages you want me to fill, and give me a contact in case I need more data, and then set me loose. I'm there. I'll do it. I'm a good writer, and a versatile one.

That's what I signed up to do, with this project. Writing. Converting bullet points into text. The deadline is tight, but I'm a good writer. It would be a challenge, but reachable.

What I wasn't told was that I'd have to come up with the bullet points myself before I started writing.

What I wasn't told was that the subject material for the bullet points hadn't even been chosen yet.

What I wasn't told was that, as soon as I started to get a handle on the subject material, they were going to change the focus on me.

What I wasn't told was that, in order to get the data I'd need, I was going to have to be calling people who've never heard my name and don't know me from Adam.

What I wasn't told was that I was going to be punished for competence.

What I wasn't told was that I was going to have to do research.

I hate research. I hate it with a blinding passion. I don't mind reading up on something I'm interested in, but digging out data simply for the purpose of showing it off... It's everything I despised about writing papers in school.

I hate it even worse when I don't know anything at all to begin with.

And worse still than that when I don't even have the first clue where to begin looking.

Research is why I don't have a PhD.

When the meeting ended yesterday and I hung up the phone, I felt like I was drowning. Literally. I couldn't breathe. I'd been floating in space, with nothing but a suit and a narrow hose to bring me home, and suddenly, my hose had been cut.

I literally crawled under my desk and cried for fifteen minutes. I don't think I've ever had an actual, real panic attack before. When that was done, I was so shaky that I couldn't even think about doing any more work. I gave up and went home.

I felt literally, physically ill. I had an upset stomach. Yay, stress. I didn't want to eat. K.T. badgered me into having some celery and peanut butter, and later I had a diet ice cream pop.

This morning, I still feel pretty sick. But I've got what amounts to six (or maybe seven) two-page papers to write, and eleven one-page papers to outline and then write (and no, I'm not allowed to just write them, which makes me crazy), and all that has to be done by noon Tuesday.

Sick or not, I work well under pressure. I have a plan. A schedule. Even when it's making me sick, stress revvs my adrenaline and kicks me into high gear.

I'm going to do this thing, because I said I would. And then I'm going to tell my boss that I never want to do it again.

--Liz