[822] Chronically There

Let's see if we can figure out what's going on.

Since about 9:30 this morning, I've been in a low-level panic. The last 2 days I've had a weird off and on sleep thing happening, either crashing as soon as I get home and waking up at midnight, or sleeping from like 11 to 3, and then trying to “nap” between 5 and 7. I'm fairly well caught up on work tasks, and even doing “extra” in reading this book they want me to summarize in less than 1500 words. I'm fed, gorging myself on a pack of cookies, entreating myself to both IKEA meatballs and Portillo's in the same evening. I've been healthy, organized, and had my builder complete some more lining of my room, helping the temperature even out in my bathroom. I've plans for the weekend and the weekend after.

As my deskmate pointed out, if I'm feeling panicked, there's something stirring in your subconscious. There's never just “no reason,” much as I tried to point out it's not a “disorder” because it needs a reason. If I'm unable to claim a disorder, it leaves me begging to speculate. I have suspicions I'll explore, and with any degree of luck or deliberate thought, I'll return to simply biding my time until better things happen verses fight the compulsion to restart clenching my jaw and coaxing headaches.

My job drowns you. Whether you want it to or not, you're dealing with people. People are uniquely tied to people. A dog can bark at you all day, it's not the same thing as someone cussing you out. We expect things out of our clients. We cross our fingers for a degree of civility when we're pursuing some bureaucratic, but seemingly ridiculous, course of action. I'm finding myself dreaming about scheduling and conversations I've had. This is the big “secret” as to “why I couldn't do your job” that rarely gets talked about out loud.

Paperwork isn't hard. Clicking the same buttons for the majority of families on our semi-crappy software isn't hard. Driving, generally, to locations 5 to 20 minutes away, and occasionally across the state isn't that hard. Embodying trauma, excuses, lies, and “don't take this personally” commentary as people just fail on top of failure gets hard. Doing it with no reprieve gets harder. Doing it and being needled over petty and small-minded “concerns” from laughable “leadership” is damn near impossible.

I, maybe, have 5 days a month. Every other day is spent anticipating work, or talking about work. The people I know? I work with them! So there is no getting drunk together without another few hours discussing all the “crazy.” I don't really “do” anything else. I spend my time trying to avoid, not trying to grow or learn. I spend it feeling older than anyone can actually guess I am. (Someone guessed 26 yesterday). I don't feel like I've the energy to do much when I get home but continue the conversation of whether or not to get a jump on tomorrow, so if and when the existential crisis hits, I won't exacerbate the panic by taking a 2 hour lunch.

I'm seeing so little of “me.” I can't talk like I want, not really. I can't explore the topics I want without feeling distracted and exhausted. You'd think, just start reading, no? Just pop your head into a fantasy, or pick up some new factoids. But it doesn't work like that. The information has no room to breathe. It's just words on a page I'm letting slip by.

I think it's worse than that though. It's the sinking feeling that things, broadly, are so much worse than I have words for, and they can't and won't get better. I've been repeating the line, “it's the little things” to myself a lot. Little shifts in how we operate can mean big stressors are alleviated. Little decisions to streamline the process don't get made. Lengthy appeals to leadership get smiled at and ignored. Little attempts to indulge or distract serve the opposite effect. Things don't connect or translate. I don't feel the causal well-intentioned sense or discussion ever working towards anything meaningful.

How the fuck do you fix that? I don't get my sense of identity from work, which subsumes a great portion of my life. I don't get support in trying to map my perspective on making work better. I don't get the impression that for all of the “adults” in the room they could hold a candle to the kind of leadership and example it would take. I run the risk of overburdening the friends or acquaintances I have in looking for something that's not their burden or theirs to offer. And every day I'm just supposed to show up, report, and carry on like there isn't a tear down the middle of my existence, my hand clenched with needle and thread so tight I'm bleeding.

I have an otherwise perfect life. I have too much stuff. I have a brain that works. I have toys. I have people who care about me (sociopath lists them 4th? Jesus) I'm still not too fat. I've managed to keep my car accidents at hitch and deer hitting. My friends are rich enough to let me chance spinning out of control in their sports car. But I can't make the little shifts? I can't prevent the panic from setting in as I stare at the blank depressing walls and recite the office mantras? If there's any word I overburden, it's absolutely irony. Perfect relative to what? To when I didn't have so much stuff? To when I naively believed in a “better” kind of future? To yours? I didn't use to panic all the time. I didn't use to walk around so fluidly as a mockery of what was going on in my bones. I feel I've taken my pragmatism too far, and am finding it incredibly hard to see where I exist.