THIS FUTURE SUCKS

Productivity. I hate the word. Measure every second I’m awake (or not) to see how much of me chips off into the pot of someone else’s wallet. Get up and rub my eyes. Bash my knees on things. Feel guilty for resting. 

I’m six years into a job that I thought would last six months. My manager sees this as his achievement. In the decade previous I’d had six other jobs, plus two degrees and a couple of 9-month stints at unemployment. Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe I was always looking for a job like this one, so utterly underloading that I have to go out of my way to find the stress, as he puts it. I’m not going to say I could do it blindfolded, but I can feel my neurons atrophying on slow days. On fast days I can feel my nervous system pulsing and every muscle in my body tighten up so that I’m eighteen kilos heavier by the time I get home, like my soft tissue has been swapped out with lead. I work unpaid overtime. I get eyerolls when I ask if we can turn down the Oasis. I threaten to jump out of the moving car and nobody says anything. I tell someone I’m working as hard as I can and they laugh. 

I’m getting by. I’ve introduced this to people as ‘the easiest job in the world’ and I’m getting by. I got a new supervisor last week and she’s great. I get hauled into my manager’s office to help him draft an email to the council. There’s a job going further up the line, training dickheads to do what I do. Manager agrees I’d be good at it, but the department head says I’m not qualified. 

When work is busy, all structure goes out the window. Corners get rounded. Rugs hide dust. Lunch happens late. I’ll get the time back, at some point, I’m told. I don’t do especially well without structure. Don’t worry, I know why, I’ve got the diagnosis. All my senses dial up past safe levels and I end up gripping the sides of my head. My body is made of lead and it’s plugged into the mains, charged with electricity. My supervisor understands if I need to go stand by myself and beat my fists against my chest for a minute.

September ought to be my favourite time of year. The cooler nights are a reprieve from summer. The later dawns and bright, clear days make for perfect cloud inversions. Instead I’m flat out serving tourists who come here to enjoy the same things I do. I mustn’t grumble. They’re here to play golf. 

I wonder why I’m still at a job that keeps me from doing the things that make me feel like life is worthwhile after all. 

I try to stay well. I run and do pushups. I remember the eyeball exercises my optometrist gave me. The bunion exercises from my podiatrist. The vocabulary exercises from my writing professor. The meditation exercises from my father, before he too took a job that made him too exhausted to [finish sentence].

My leg hurts. It’s too late to refund the race I’m booked for at the end of the month. I hold my partner’s hand until their new course of SSRIs kicks in. I wipe the social apps off my phone and I miss a few weeks of writing. I apologise to Abi and she’s incredibly cool about it. 

I drag my feet home and I stop on the way to look at the trees in the park. I listen to the new Problem Patterns record. I drink a 0%. I lie on the floor and I feel the lightning course through me.

For just £3.99 you can do your part to make sure Jed doesn’t have to work a real job anymore. Go to Fixeroptional dot Itch dot IO to support us with your purchase. 

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