My bed, 21.21
Do I love it or is it just Stockholm syndrome?
Press send. Think I should have an email signature warning people I might send emails at odd times of day, think it could apologise for this. A disclaimer of sorts. Think of it saying, I work flexibly, allowing it to discount the fact I have worked from 9.30 today until largely, now. Think of how I had lunch at 4.30pm, standing up in the kitchen. Think not all days are like this. Try to count the ones that are not. Think it’s not a real job, is it really. Think of how many people would give so much to be able to play like this, all the time. Think of delayed trains, of trying to think of things to say in interviews, think of always having to depend on everything all the time being something you can make up or think up or bring into being. Think of a pay check. Think of a sick day. Think of being paid for one. Think of a holiday. Think of an office. Breathing other people’s used up air. Think of a pension. Think of early retirement. Fuck it, think of retirement full stop. Think of being paid to do what you love. Think of still loving it after 12 hour days if you’re lucky. Think of being this lucky, all the time. Think of that. Think of reading Ted Hughes earlier. Think of daring to call that a job. Think of Hughes being a chore. Think of dead problematic men. Think of sleep. Think of turning the laptop off. Think of pressing publish. Think of looking at remote holiday cottages. Think of booking one. Think of planning next year’s spring. Think of the faith it takes. Think of sleep. Think of turning the laptop off. Think.
Like a lot of people, in the pandemic my job morphed from something that could only be done with a commute and an office, to sitting on the sofa with a laptop 12+ hours a day, back to back Teams calls about Teams calls.
When we came out of the lockdowns, it got worse. Playing catch up, costs rising, income falling, staff leaving. At one point I was working 20/7 for weeks. I stopped sleeping almost completely, just micro-napping. When they realise you can work anywhere, anytime, it doesn't matter what barriers you erect. They want everything.
It never stopped. That demand. That endless sulking, mewling brat of demand. The expectation. The blood sucking need not of one person, but an organisation. Dream-wake state became my norm. High activation, flight/fight 24/7.
Another year on and my brain just stopped working. It's flipped out before quite a few times, but this time it went on strike. It's still on strike. I fell backwards through my life. Everything all at once, all the time. It undid every piece of mental health work I've ever did and I nearly didn't return . I'm only now sorting through the rubble. The pieces of me don't fit together. Now, they're sacking me for being ill. Still join the 3am club quite often, but the meds have helped.
It is f*cking impossible what is asked of us. All of it. The modern world. The relentless hose of news. Putting ourselves out on social media. Picking up endless emails. Employers who demand much more than they expect of robots. Teddy H would lose his sh*t. We are designed and destined to fail this world, and the only way to win the game is to accept it and fail with the most spectacular splash possible.
I love this. So much resonated with me about writing and the realness of it being a job that doesn’t stop vs a real job with premature and a possible end. The cadence is also lovely. Thank you!❤️