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.
My heart bleeds for you. I stopped teaching after I was threatened with sanctions after I'd had a breakdown. Luckily I was only two years off retirement so we sold up in London and went north to a new life. I wish you all the luck in the world and hope you find your way to a better life.
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!❤️
I'm reading this like a writerly version of the Trainspotting theme, Ali. Love it. Resonate with much you say, here at Moniack this week, which is lovely but also mentally and emotionally draining. And this is what I wanted from this life. This is what I've been craving. What I'm desperate for. But the words. The need and want to read all of the words. Write them all, and write about them all, too. I know I have to go back to Glasgow in a couple of days ready to switch into a different mode of being, where the writing will have to fit in around all the other stuff. I'll likely exhaust myself here and then be ill. The price we pay. And oh, the privilege.
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.
My heart bleeds for you. I stopped teaching after I was threatened with sanctions after I'd had a breakdown. Luckily I was only two years off retirement so we sold up in London and went north to a new life. I wish you all the luck in the world and hope you find your way to a better life.
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!❤️
I'm reading this like a writerly version of the Trainspotting theme, Ali. Love it. Resonate with much you say, here at Moniack this week, which is lovely but also mentally and emotionally draining. And this is what I wanted from this life. This is what I've been craving. What I'm desperate for. But the words. The need and want to read all of the words. Write them all, and write about them all, too. I know I have to go back to Glasgow in a couple of days ready to switch into a different mode of being, where the writing will have to fit in around all the other stuff. I'll likely exhaust myself here and then be ill. The price we pay. And oh, the privilege.
Or think about not thinking if it's sleep you really need. Goodnight...
tired and lucky. but mostly, tired and tired.