Mind that episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, where Buffy and the Scooby gang battles the vampire demon Kakistos? That episode, for some reason, reminded me of a very short (yet impactful) scene from Home Alone in New York. I always wondered why, until I learned the definition of the word kakistocracy.
Knowing Joss Whedon’s writing, the demon’s name is no coincidence. Whether or not my suspicions carry any merit, the definition remains;
“A kakistocracy is a system where the least qualified people hold power”
Chew on that one for a minute. Also, according to the Buffyverse Wiki, Kakistos means ‘the worst’ in Greek. Remind you of any unfit world leaders, perhaps?
This is definitely not going to be the longest post in the world, but that, in and of itself, decreases its chances of being Kakistos. I didn’t sleep at all last night, and seeing as I’m just now ending my workday, I thought I might try to get some kip tonight.
I wonder, though, if the worst doesn’t deserve a post all of its own. What do you think? Or perhaps I should focus my energy on something that would actually benefit society and quite possibly myself as well? It’s in your hands now and, as you know, I am a woman of my word. Perhaps I’ll take you behind the scenes of a recording session that took place this weekend, or maybe I’ll write about why horses seem to like to flap their penises about whilst grazing… Dropping, it’s called.
Good grief, how on earth will I do any research on that without getting myself into trouble?
Nevertheless, I shall leave you with these last words, before the inside of my eyelids catch on fire, and a lovely we video below. See you next Tuesday, muchach-hoes!
The hunt for inspiration to get through the week can seem a fruitless endeavour at the best of times – never mind when you’re approaching the midweek deadlines with completely rudderless navigation, because the week failed to start on the day it normally does. Who even has the time to stop and think about a possible motivational aide?
Regardless of my incessant digressions, there’s no escaping the fact that motivation is key to get shit (ha) done in an orderly fashion, and to an acceptable standard. So, when the promise of monetary rewards at the end of the month no longer cuts it – where does that leave us?
Most online dictionaries have similar definitions of ‘motivation’, but, seeing as I’m interested in it in the more metaphysical sense, I came across the below explanation on Verywellmind.com:
“Motivation is the psychological force that explains why a person does something”
Our driving force.
Now, I don’t want to be a total Kant (ha-ha), so, das ding an sich aside, I think we can all agree that motivation can indeed be defined as a very real force – a need, even – in the process of driving home our goals. So what, then, if and when it slips through our fingers?
It’s not just our friendly Newcastle psychologists that are interested in helping the demotivated masses; Psychology Today have posted their ‘7 tips for when you’ve lost all motivation’. Have a read, if you think it’ll be of interest to you. Personally, I don’t have patience for a two-minute waffle about IVF, so I don’t blame you for feeling too demotivated to read past those first few paragraphs either.
Anyway.
I’m a little sick of all this barely-touching-the-surface-stuff. Meghan Trainor might be all about that bass, but I am all about that nitty gritty.
I am sure there’s micro-levels of motivation in everything we do, down to the most basic of things – a bowel movement sure as hell motivates you to get off the couch and move your pasty pile of flesh and bone to the water closet before you accidentally relieve yourself on your crushed velvet throw pillows. But would be surprised if someone told me that such an event motivated them. In fact, all I ever hear about motivation – outside of true crime docs and Olympic athletes – is more often than not attached to a prefix; de.
I’m guilty of it to – just the other day I caught myself complaining about someone else’s behaviour being demotivating. I mean, I still stand by it, but what purpose does it serve? Perhaps, instead of letting it crush my spirit, I can let their behaviour become my motivation for changing my path to the extent that it no longer crosses theirs? Am I motivated enough to set some clear, attainable goals for myself, or do I just enjoy wallowing in the helplessness?
I used to get my motivation from the impossible; if someone told me I couldn’t or wouldn’t be able to do something, that was what I did. Regrettably, it worked the other way around as well – I’d lose interest in something if someone praised my talents or audibly supported my decision to do something. Weird. Moronic. Sad. But that’s how I worked – at least, when you smashed it when the odds were stacked against you, you somehow felt more alive. The risk of ultimate failure was perhaps the only thing that could make me do anything at all, because then I would have to reach my goal. The alternative was death.
Sounds pretty healthy, right?
I’m thinking that this all-or-nothing thinking isn’t the most sustainable life motto of all time. Perhaps I will need to allow for a few micro-motivations to slip in through the cracks to create the spark that reignites the fire.
The time has come.
Oh, before I bid you adieu, I will leave you with a video of Europe performing a song of the very same name below. Enjoy.
Sound familiar? It should – it’s a lyric from Metallica’s Nothing Else Matters. Their self-titled album got a lot of flak when it came out (or, rather, people who dared to be vocal about enjoying it got a lot of flak), but eight year old me had zero fucks to give about other people’s opinion on a piece of music – something that seems to remain a constant to this day.
Can you imagine I had a full post written up and ready to go when the autosave stopped working. Now it’s all gone and you will never be able to taste such exquisite waffle!
In case you were wondering, I wanted to write about a day I dread and loathe in equal measure; 1st April. I might still do that, though, because someone took the bible for something other than pure fiction and decided we should have a few days off this week.
I shall see you next Tuesday! Until then, enjoy the below video of Rush performing one of their iconic masterpieces at this year’s Juno Awards:
I’ve no idea where my Monday went. Evidence suggests that shit got done during my mental check-out, but I couldn’t tell you how. Perhaps I’ve been visited by the adulting fairy? Although, that sounds rather pervy and I’d like to get at least an hour of sleep tonight, so let’s not entertain that particular thought.
Remember that band Lady Antebellum? For some reason, whenever I heard that one song they had, that seemed to get a lot of airplay about a decade or so ago, I could never get their name right and kept referring to them as Lady Cerebellum. Incidentally, that’s what I’ve started calling myself when that part of my brain seems to shut me out and hide its activity from me. Sometimes, it shuts itself off completely, leading to hilarious and/or near-fatal situations in which I lose my balance and/or the ability to speak properly. I could be standing completely still in the shop one second, trying to decide which type of granola to get, and then see the floor coming towards my face at warp speed the next.
Maybe this is a sign that I should try dating again – or better yet, ask my GP to assign me a carer. Who knows? I’ve managed to stay upright for most of today, though, so I’m not about to download any apps any time soon.
Without a shadow of a doubt, being in the middle of moving house for the umpteenth time in five years was what caused my Monday blackout. I’m living in a box, I’m living in a cardboard box (in my case, there’s ten of them, but who’s counting). I’ve had that song stuck in my head all day – likely all of yesterday as well – so I don’t feel bad for passing along this little earworm.
Also, if you’re not familiar with this song, you’re too young to be reading this.
When I was getting ready for bed on Sunday, after having returned from a work trip, unpacked and re-packed what I had just unpacked in one of my ten boxes, I was thinking about how impossibly long this week was going to be, as I had almost four whole days before getting the keys to my new flat – so my brain saves the day by stealing one.
It’s not the end of the world (at least not in this particular scenario – but I’d stay away from the news). In fact, I’d go as far as to say that this particular post would end up on the cutting room floor had I been the editor-in-chief. Oh, wait, I technically am her… so, today I say fuck it. We all have days like these, don’t we?
Perhaps we could use this post as a reminder to take a step back. Today, a colleague I hold in very high regard told me that she’s trying to use her phone less, so she’s taking up all sorts of cool hobbies. I think that, once I get settled in my new flat, I’ll take a page from her book. Not that I spend a lot of time on my phone – I think I’ve actually developed an allergy against it – but I need a hobby. At the very least, it would keep me switched-on for long enough that my brain won’t have the chance to organise a mutiny behind my back.
See you next Tuesday, from a rung or two up from the bottom of the food chain…
Happy Tuesday! I’m back, from inner space… and something’s been grinding my gears.
A new1 trend appears to have manifested itself onto the meta-verse, where some random humanoid with an indiscernible semi-Scots accent in a run-of-the-mill heather-y hillside excitedly claiming the origin of everyday terms to be Gaelic. I mean, if this is what people want to do with their lives; roam the countryside donning nought but a tourist shop-bought “kilt” and a selfie stick, then, by all means… But don’t try to tell me that you think that everything that sounds the same (ish) means the same. Ever heard of false friends?
If you haven’t, I am willing to bet my finest cardigan on the assumption that you’re not a linguist or philologist. Thus, you should not be “teaching” unassuming doom scrollers about what you reckon might be the origins of the English language. Or any language, for that matter.
What I mean to say is;
Don’t believe everything the Internet tells you.
I would link to one of these videos here, but I don’t want to help spread any more misinformation (and I don’t like to point fingers) – I’m sure they’re nice to animals or something). What I can do, however, is provide some links to proof that this nonsense has been debunked. The word this time, if anyone gives a crêpe, was ‘smashing’:
Wiktionary. Perhaps not always the most reliable of sources, but this seems well-researched.
I doubt that the lad in the videos I watched has ever heard of Daniel Cassidy, but he claimed to have all the facts nonetheless. Another thing I fear he’s failed to consider, is that the general public have stopped looking to books and educators for knowledge – instead they scroll away on their social media, mistaking entertainment for education.
Thank goodness the end is nigh.
See, there’s more to verbal communication than just phonemes and syntax – or, speech sounds and sentence structure to you unscholarly types. In fact, did you know that the words describing the sound an owl makes in Danish is slang for penis in Norwegian?
And, don’t take my word for it (even though I do have a degree in linguistics). Look it up! And, no, don’t ask some AI shitbot, use your Internet browser for what it’s worth – really get into it. Even better, if you’ve got access to a Danish book of birdcalls or a trusted Norwegian pal that could let you in on the secrets of their magnificent language, you should check with them. Should your research on owl sounds bring you to the answer2, though, I suggest you resist the urge to type that particular term into your Internet search engine, as it might end up biting you on the arse. Even if you do enjoy having your buttocks nibbled.
I’ll go watch this week’s episode of High Potential (yes, using the Internet for streaming purposes, I know) – I’m hooked and I don’t know why. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m hooked because Kaitlin Olson’s performance in this thing is through the roof – as is that of the one and only Judy Reyes. Never before have I enjoyed anything even bordering on crime/whodunnit, but this is a good one. Great, in fact.
To wrap things up, I’d like to give one of my favourite peeps (whose birth fell on this date some 40+ years ago, but who’s counting? Well, he is, because he’s a drummer) a special shout out. You’re a legend and a half, Rob! For those of you having made it through to the end, you can enjoy one of his bands in the below video:
See you next Tuesday!
I am old, so ‘new’ is relative – it could mean anything between now and Y2K ↩︎
Diving deep into the metaphysics of it all this week, upon discovering a term previously flying far too far below my radar (and, incidentally, my navel) to receive any acknowledgement; metacognition. Naturally, this sent me into a frenzied bout of sceptical introspection… Scepto-ception?!
Good grief, if Susie Dent were to stumble upon this post, she’ll no doubt have me decapitated. With good reason!
So, metacognition is really just the ability to understand your own thought process. I suppose you could call it a sort of mindful thinking, where you dissect every morsel to see how it came to be and how it can be reconstructed or directed to develop further. I like to envision it as cognitive metamorphosis, where the thought process takes on a physical form… like a fertilised brain-egg, dividing itself into tiny clusters of what-ifs, pausing here and there to contemplate whether it would like to become a Falkor-type hero or a mini Mengele. And, should it fail its mission and choose the latter, it would cause itself to implode and would have to restart the process. Anyway, don’t take my word for it when you can read all about a few different definitions of metacognition on Science Direct, by clicking anywhere on this sentence.
What brought me here today, though, was my reaction to hypnosis. Which, in turn, brought me to a state of such relaxation that I found myself watching a full reel of this lady going on about metacognition and how it is more likely to occur in individuals who, for one reason or another, have had to teach themselves to anticipate the needs of others ahead of time in order to avoid conflict. I’m paraphrasing, but that was the gist of it.
Now, if this is not your first time here, I suspect you can smell a rant coming. But first, I’d like to once again touch on this hypnosis business. First of all, it was nothing like what popular culture has taught us – I hope you’re picturing a man being hypnotised by a magician on stage, instantly turning into a Clockwork Orange-esque giant baby by the snap of the magician’s fingers – it was quite the opposite. Although, the main principle of becoming relaxed enough to have one’s subconscious manipulated remains, it is a far more active experience that I thought it would be. (Active, in the sense that I was fully conscious for the whole thing – there was no ‘and now you’ll enter a deep sleep’ nonsense). Rather, this was quite similar to my experiences with guided meditation. Apart from the fact that during hypnosis, I was allowed to move if I had to – ultimately removing my urge to do so. And so, for the second time in 42 years, the other time was during a yoga class at the Quartermile PureGym in Edinburgh, I became so relaxed that I became a little emotional.
But, yeah, I relaxed for all of 20 minutes and then I cried. And then, on my way home, I began contemplating my navel. Normally, I’d say nothing good comes from such an activity, but it had me stumble upon a personality trait that I have come to detest in a certain type of so-called neuro-fluencer types; ignorance. The most painful realisation being that I had been guilty of the same on one or more occasions.
‘Me, me, meeeeee!‘ amirite? I jest, I know how to spell. Here comes the rant!
Owning that you’re a little different is great. But being different does not entitle you to be insufferable. Just, you know, come off it. You may have felt something click inside you when you were diagnosed, but that doesn’t mean you get to preach about like you’re possessed every time you’re in a social setting. Did it ever occur to you that your friend(s) might like to talk about something other than you for a change? They are the main character* in their respective lives too. It’s not as if they’ve been sat around, patiently waiting for you to find yourself. And it is certainly not their fault that you’ve felt as if you’ve had to hold your tongue for your entire life and have finally been given permission to speak up.
In fact, it is now you that are doing to them the injustice you thought others were serving you, when in all likelihood they weren’t even thinking about how their actions affected you. But you, the oh, so metacognisant, you are doing it despite your awareness of the potential harm your behaviour might cause. So, come the fuck off it. Talk to your therapist about your experience, discuss it with them, that’s what they are there for – don’t talk their ear off for an hour, and then go talk atyour pal about talking in therapy for an hour afterwards.
Ever heard of active listening, ya feck?
You’d want a friendship to be transactional, don’t you? Well, then you’re going to have to treat them with a little kindness and gratitude (and not serve them a lecture that would put a certain cheeto-looking dictator to shame).
Just enjoy the fact that you found something that works for you, and that your healthcare system can arrange for a professional to listen to you go on about everything and anything, from emotional scars to grief and that one time someone down the pub told you that you looked exactly like Jabba the Hutt… I digress.
You’re different – great! Now, put what you’ve learned to good use and be content with finally accepting who you are. You see, your pals already have. There’s no need for you to convince them of what they already know; that you’re worthy of their friendship. Perhaps your frantic waving of your freak flag was exactly what brought them to you to begin with – who knows? Either way, maybe now is the time for you to show them that the feeling is mutual.
Anyway, why don’t you have a look at the video below?
See you next Tuesday, for more madness!
*Links to an article on how ‘main character energy’ can pose a problem, onPsychology Today
Thanks for askin’, Joe, I’m actually not feelin’ too bad myself. For a change. (Yes, those were the words of Dave Mason of Traffic I just butchered, but I prefer the Cocker version. One of my favourite songs, actually, so I’ll leave a treat for those of you who make it to the bottom.)
It’s bizarre, with everything going on in the world, that I’ve managed to remain seemingly unperturbed. During a Blood Moon, no less (!). I hadn’t even thought about the fluctuations in the earth centre’s gravitational pull until I saw the big old pizza 3.14 up in the sky when I left the house earlier.
For once, it seems I’m in a state of not needing a rant. I am not pining for the fjords. The ranter has ceased to be. I am an ex-ranter.
Or perhaps it’s the lack of sleep in the last 24 hours.
This might be the least connected I’ve ever felt to the lyrics of the first verse of Feelin’ Alright.
And that is why I’ve decided that, instead of adding onto all of the other shit going on by screaming my fingers off and stirring shit up today, I will urge you to try and find some peace and block out all of the noise. You can do the yoga exercise in the photo (cheers, YogiTea!). If only for a second. The world’s not going to stop burning without us.
(OK, subtle wee rant, but that’s it)
What’s changed? Nothing. Everything? Perhaps I’ve tried hypnosis and it really sort of helped? I’ll write about that next week, but for now we’ll relax for a bit. Accept the fact that there’s some things we can’t fix and that we’d be better off focusing our energy towards what we can – or even show our support for those who can.
I’m not going to try to persuade you into buying anything here today – not even my take on some far-fetched theory. All I want from you, dear reader, is for you to know that your reading this is helping someone.
I will leave you with some more words from Feelin’ Alright, as performed by the late Joe Cocker, one of the finest singers to have ever graced this earth:
“Don’t get too lost in all I say Yeah, by the time, you know, I really felt that way But that was then, and now, you know, it’s today I can’t escape so I guess I’m here to stay ‘Til someone comes along and takes my place, yeah With a different name, oh, and a different face”
If there’s still something for us all to wake up to tomorrow, I shall see you next Tuesday. Until then, stay weird and don’t be afraid to get in touch. Let’s hope they keep light on for another couple of years. This thing is just starting to get good, and I’ve got “too much to do before I die”.
Now, as a young first-year Philosophy student, I must admit I was never partial to David Hume’s school of thought (although I did find it funny that he supposedly changed his name from Home to Hume, because “no-one in England went by Home”. Pretty far-out behaviour, for someone from Lawnmarket, Edinburgh.
Looks like the drugs are finally out of the system – let’s celebrate the return of my ever-charming personality!
So, why the hell would someone in their right mind all of a sudden start reading Hume, when they already know they won’t like it? Next-level asceticism? The short answer is no, this was not an act of self-harm. In fact, I’ve not been reading at all – he was quoted (if only very briefly) in a podcast episode. I cannot for the life of me recall what podcast this was, and I refuse to go through the log on my streaming app, seeing as I’ve listened to hours and hours of music since. But I know it had something to do with reasoning and causation.
The original (and full) quote is from section 3 of the third part of the second book in Hume’s A Treatise of Human Nature. It is grossly taken out of context – much akin to a headline from The Sun – and reads as follows:
“Reason is, and ought only to be the slave of the passions, and can never pretend to any other office than to serve and obey them.” (1739-40)
The quote is often seen in combination with another part of the text so far down on the same page that you have to assume the latter works as a sort of book-end to the former, after a series of examples of how the ‘self’ defines reasoning driven by passion. The latter does not follow the former without some degree of detailed explanation. You can read the entire thing by clicking anywhere on this sentence.
Now, feel free to call me on my jumping onto the express train to judgement city, but I’ve spent enough time behind semi-dodgy boozer bars to recognise the drunken ramblings of a grown man with certain, shall we say, repressed urges.
Nevertheless, it turns out the 2026 version of me actually quite likes these musings of Hume. And, what resonated was the part about our passions bleeding into our reasoning – and not only in matters of the heart. What are we, without passion? To me, life would have very little meaning without it. The joy you feel when a risky venture pays off. The slack you might cut yourself if it doesn’t, because the passion drove you to act carelessly.
I believe that any human creature capable of emotion can be passionate about a multitude of things. I mean, need I bring up the bog roll conflict?
When shit gets, well, real shitty, my passion-fuelled reasoning is the only thing that can shift my focus. Albeit not always in a good way, but still. Just like a limp handshake, a passion-less existence is not for me. Which might be why antidepressants only make me unwell – I need the passion to feel alive. I thrive on the chaos I’ve created, because I lets me access this superhuman stress-tolerance in the event that real chaos erupts. When you flip the switch, however, just crossing the street might feel overwhelming.
If you ever feel overwhelmed, dear reader – or if you’ve had enough of these seemingly unstructured ramblings – I’d like for you to drop me a message via the contact form. I’ve got loads of ideas, but I’m up for a challenge. Finally! 10 points goes to the first person that manages to stump me.
I am going to love you and leave you for now. I shall see you again next Tuesday!
“Shivering, muscle pain, fatigue, excessive sweating, headaches, weakness, vertigo, gait imbalance, dizziness, ataxia, tremors, paraesthesia, nausea, vomiting, diarrhoea, abdominal pain, electric-shock-like experiences in the brain (referred to as brain zaps), visual disturbances, insomnia, vivid dreams, nightmares, agitation, irritability, anxiety, tearfulness, sexual dysfunctions” (Special Issue Psychopharmacology of Affective Disorders, 2021) – these are a few of my favourite things.
I jest, of course. You’d be hard pressed to find so much as one of these things anywhere even remotely near the list of things I’d wish on my worst enemy (apart from maybe the diarrhoea), yet they are some of the more common symptoms associated with the discontinuation of the ‘serotonin modulator and stimulator’ (a type of antidepressant) Vortioxetine.
Other research studies mentioned such lovely side effects as depersonalisation, emotional incontinence and the inevitable return of the depressive symptoms.
Needless to say, I stopped taking my meds due to their inefficacy and rather intolerable, to me, side effects (I have an intolerance to certain types of medication, and I am not claiming this to be some sort of universal fact or that all drugs are bad. This is just my personal experience.), and now I’ve gone a bit extra bonkers. I’ve been so out of it, it didn’t even occur to me that it could be withdrawal symptoms (I was on a very low dose to begin with, and tapering is not normally necessary), until it was pointed out to me by a professional.
Anyway, my recent lack of inspiration and focus has an explanation. My brain will resume its brain-like activities yet again – soon, even. Multiple trusted internet sources tell me that I am at around the time where the more adverse symptoms reach their climax (YUCK), and that I can expect them to taper off and (hopefully) disappear within the next fortnight.
Just knowing that there’s some logic behind my very odd behaviour in recent weeks helps a great deal – I’m sure I’ll be back to writing fascinating content about, say, how far a human fart can travel before losing speed, aroma or altitude in no time. Perhaps even next week?? You know you’re in for a treat – here’s hoping no one will steal my idea whilst I’m contemplating my existence, the meaning behind the lyrics to Tears for Fear’s Shout, or the secret behind Michael Hutchence‘s incredible charisma.
I dare you to click on the above ‘fart’ link.
Whilst my synapses have been frying themselves in the last drops of oil meant for lubricating my myelin sheaths, and my prefrontal cortex has fucked off on an all-inclusive EasyJet holiday to Lanza-fucking-rote, the world has been burning. But, at the same time, people seem to be finally waking up. I’ve noticed more people spending less time on their phones on public transport this past week, making eye contact and even smiling (!) at strangers. Perhaps there’s hope for our species yet? If not, I’d better hurry the fuck up and finish the second book before we all go *poof*.
I never quite managed to tell The Tell-tale Heart and Death of a Salesman apart – or the latter from Fiddler on the Roof, for that matter – I was so bored out of my skull from all the pretentiousness that I somehow blocked out the differences. I’d rather read The Salesman Fiddler Tell-all (Death on the Roof). (I mean, who wouldn’t?)
What’s this got to do with the price of moth-eaten stockings? Well. All three of the aforementioned works of fiction (one would assume) are quite dark. And being introduced to them during my hormone-infested formative years, when I was already submerged in thoughts about the frailty of the human body, they all seemed to embody the same message; death will come for us all. I suspect that’s when I first decided that I wasn’t going to let death take me by surprise – I was going out on my own terms.
And, thus, my fear of death was born. Much thanks to the flawed human psyche. I wanted to finish myself off. I had made my peace with dying, but I had a few things to tick off my list before I could escort myself off the ledge, as it were. I didn’t dare to sleep, in sheer fear of never waking up again. (Which eventually resulted in fainting from the exhaustion, but you’d be surprised at just how long a stubborn child can manage to stay awake if left to their own angst-ridden devices). Thanatophobia, for you learned folks.
I know I promised you a post about suicide and friendship, but I changed my mind. And then, as I was running through a graveyard to catch a bus yesterday, I started thinking about the link between death anxiety and suicidal ideation – surely there must be one. But now I cannot find any research on the matter, so I am hoping this finds its way to a person in the position to do a proper study on it. In the meantime, you can read about “Attempted suicide and Death Anxiety” on the American National Library of Medicine. It was the only thing slightly scientific, not in a Reddit thread.
And instead, I will give you my two cents on how forced time off work/paid seasonal leave can lead to burnout if you have fallen out of love with your job. I’m not talking about going away on holiday here, I am talking about being faced with whole days completely without team meetings, work calls, the constant need to check your phone for notifications and the endless to-do-lists, and you haven’t had to ask for it.
Most people will enjoy the time off, fill it with family activities, festive pish, a Tinder-palooza if so inclined, and some might feel a bit anxious about not being able to respond to emails, or they didn’t manage to get everything done before they left the office on the last day, but even those people will be able to relax after a few days have gone by without any disasters. And, depending of just how many days one is awarded off, some of these people might start to notice how their sleep pattern improves. Some might notice a slight weight loss, their complexion clears up, all of a sudden, it’s been a full week without them reaching for a single Paracetamol. But they might think very little of it – they might even brush it off as them finally starting to get over that cold that somehow came over them mid-October and never quite left.
But then, as if by magic (or, rather, a curse), the last day of the holiday arrives and they unable to fall asleep, because they’re terrified the alarm won’t wake them, so they pass out some time around 1am, only to wake up in a pool of sweat two hours later, which then has them twisting and turning until about 40 minutes before the alarm’s set to go off, when they finally fall asleep. One alarm and five snoozes later, they’re standing in front of the bathroom mirror, wondering what has happened to the person looking back at them the day before, when they hadn’t even needed an alarm to get them out of bed by 6. The week is off to a shitty start, and when they get to the office, they are inundated by emails they are unable to respond to, because of the incessant post-hols chatter between the more cheerful colleagues, who have been looking forward to seeing everyone again (and no doubt get to see a little less of their respective families). So, little by little, the sleep-deprived shell of a human being just sits there, staring into their computer screen(s) looking for the meaning of life, as the first headache starts to brew, accompanied by a fever and a slightly elevated heartrate from the stress. This, of course, is followed by nausea, but at the same time they are overcome by a seemingly insatiable hunger – they can feel their body expanding just at the thought of food… If this is you? I have one word for you; burnout.
We don’t talk enough about the physical symptoms of burnout, or the detrimental effect it can have on our everyday. There is a chance that a change of scenery can fix it, but, regardless, you can benefit greatly from seeing your GP about this. Just talking about it with a professional can be a tremendous help. This is your body screaming at you to stop what you’re doing and tend to it before it shrivels up and dies a slow, painful death. Or, if you’re just dying to leave a cortisol-filled middle-aged corpse behind, continue ignoring it.
If the prospect of going to work feels like a fate worse than death and fills you with dread – or worse, with indifference – you might want to update your LinkedIn profile…
I leave you today, with the immortal words from Clare Harner’s 1934 poem Immortality, as published in the December issue of poetry magazine The Gypsy:
Do not stand By my grave, and weep. I am not there, I do not sleep — I am the thousand winds that blow I am the diamond glints in snow I am the sunlight on ripened grain, I am the gentle, autumn rain. As you awake with morning’s hush, I am the swift, up-flinging rush Of quiet birds in circling flight, I am the day transcending night. Do not stand By my grave, and cry— I am not there, I did not die.
Because, I am not there. I did not die. I just listened to my body and managed to get myself pulled out of the abyss before I was buried alive. Now, go buy my book, please. Or, you could send me a wee message! See you next Tuesday.
Gonzo With the Wind 