Written by I am conflicted about life.
Two nights ago, I woke up suddenly at 4am; all the anxieties and tensions and confusions battering my mind like hail pounding a tender body. I whispered, half asleep, but three-quarters angry, “I hate this fucking life.” I know this because my partner repeated these words the next morning, sadness tingeing his usual bright blue eyes.
I do not hate my life. I hate westernised, capitalistic society, which has dictated and molded my life like play-doh since my birth. I despise feeling trapped in a career that demands my energy all so that I can pay my bills to survive in a society that was not designed for me, a society that was designed by the rich to stay rich, a society developed on the backs of the working poor.
It is, as they say, inescapable. Inevitable. Relentless.
And then, there is my bed. So warm, cozy and comforting, especially during these cold, drab, wintry months. I find myself staying in bed longer and longer, pushing out the minutes as if I could escape time. But, I can’t. I rush out of bed at 8:55am, into a frantic frenzy, and my work day immediately starts. Welcome to 9am and my first virtual meeting of the day.
Home has become work, work is done at home. My writing desk, once full of creativity, clippings, bits and bobs, and piled high with diaries has now morphed into a computer with a double-screen, heavy duty headphones, notebooks full of work, and post-it notes with to-do upon to-do scattered across the space. I can barely fit, my elbows knocking against the workbooks, my hand squished between mouse and keyboard. A desk once so large is now made small by the overwhelmingness of work.
A desk once so large is now made small by the overwhelmingness of work.
There is a blurring of who I am…or rather, who I was and who I was – two individuals whose lives used to be separate, but are now undeniably intertwined. When my cat walks across my virtual Webex meeting, my professional self (the one nodding thoughtfully at a colleague’s comments) is suddenly thrust into my personal self as a big bushy tail hits me in the face. Who am I in this moment? Professional Whitney flees as personal Whitney deals with the furry invasion. Again and again, I ping-pong between these two selves, selves that used to be separate, where personal me was priority at home and professional me was only occasionally invited to the dinner table.
When my cat walks across my virtual Webex meeting, my professional self (the one nodding thoughtfully at a colleague’s comments) is suddenly thrust into my personal self as a big bushy tail hits me in the face. Who am I in this moment?
No, there is no line any more. The days have become dull and monotonous: wake up, make coffee, feed dog, shower, emails, virtual meeting, emails, more emails, phone call, emails, virtual meeting (my record is nine back-to-back meetings in one day), emails, cook dinner, watch tv, read, sleep. Five months of consistency and I feel like my soul is jumping within my skin, a wiggling itch that cannot be sated.
I have become boring.
It pains me to say it. Because boring means uninspired, dispassionate, uncreative. Somehow in this normality, I have slowly lost everything that made me feel alive. I thought this remote working experience would provide me an opportunity to create, to have more time for my personal self. But the reverse has come true. There is no room for creativity when my space (physical, mental and emotional) is so full of work.
Somehow in this normality, I have slowly lost everything that made me feel alive.
Don’t get me started on society.
I cannot move in this 9 to 5, five days a week life of structured work. I am a bird with clipped wings – there must be something more. I am trapped within a cage; society used to be my only structure. But now, within my 9 to 5, I am contained at home, another restraint on my already smothered soul.
When I was a child, I used to watch the panthers at the zoo pace, pace, pace back and forth within their cages. I wished I could set them free. Nothing so magnificent deserves to be so contained.
I am that panther right now.
And I fucking hate it (as previsouly stated at 4am between a dream of me flying and tossing so angrily that I became tangled in the sheets).
I don’t know how to fix my current predicament. Lockdown will ease (eventually), but society is an unrelenting beast. What can I do to free my soul?
I am going to start with one action: my writing desk is sacred; I will not tarnish my creativity any longer by conducting work in this special place. This space, once brimming with creativity, deserves to see joy again. I will rid myself of the post-its and workbooks, clear the table of all electronics, and allow my elbows and my mind to breathe once more. Today, I am making space for me.
Today, I am making space for me.
Whit Munroe 