Tuesday 10.14 - In Which I Talk About W O R K


My contract says something about not being disparaging about work on social media, or something about not talking about it or something else that I probably should have payed more attention to. But, if you know me, you know I like to fly by the seat of my pants in everything I do, so why should my online life be any different? Plus, I am fed up of being on the bandwagon of instagram-hate (more on that eventually, one day).

Work is, interesting.

I work in care, it’s never exciting ( and to call it exciting seems, wrong), and it’s repetitive, but, but, it’s a job. Working with people is interesting though, and working with individuals at the end of their lives can be interesting (heartbreaking too, sure) just as much.

I’m lucky in that I am not too attached to those I have watched die. It is what it is, but there are two individuals that have left a lasting impression. For a variety of reasons, and it’s a little weird as to why they left a lasting impression.

Do you believe you can exist in more than one place at a time? Do you believe you can watch yourself die, and be born and live, as if there’s other bits of your soul running around? Do I sound bonkers? You bet I do. But I do believe I watched myself die, with a lone care staff sat next to me, waiting for my last breath, and then she opens the window and out I float into the ether or the world or wherever the damned rest of my soul fucked off too.

I was there and I was dying without family around me, for many reasons that don’t matter. I was dying, but not alone because of that one staff member, who had no idea what exactly to do, but was there none-the-less. An open window because fresh air hits the nostrils in just the right way. It’s almost midnight and the body gives up, but I wasn’t alone because I was there. You get it? Naaaa, it’s ok, I barely get it either.

And then (“shouldn’t start sentences with and, Erin”, said my Grandfather), but, and then, there is another old person at work, who talks about themselves in the third person and I feel it, I feel it in my gut and I think “It’s me”. Except it’s not me, it’s someone else, it’s another part of my soul in someone else floating about, body and mind destroyed by dementia. Like mental illness that eats away at the brain like a hungry beast. Like a dripping tap of sanity that it emptying the bucket of joy. I like similes, I like metaphors and analogies of poor mental health better than having poor mental health.

I see my future when I’m at work and when I was working in schools I saw my past in the children. In this way I exist everywhere but nowhere, coupled with the pieces of my heart that I left with those I loved and no longer know (and no, not just those men I had sex with, friends, family, tutors, an all-encompassing love not a romantic one).

I have probably said too much about work, head office could be sneaky and decide that the information I provided has breached GDPR, that my head is now on the block, so be it. It’s damaging not being able to talk about a job that sucks so much out of you. Granted not everyone would do it so publicly, and the company do offer counselling (not enough sessions if you’re there for years though). I like to imagine a counsellor would be royally flabbergasted at my ideas around watching myself die. It makes me laugh. Hahahaha.

But anyway, sorry for this, soliloquy, lets go back to bashing instagram shall we? It really is such a piece of shit these days.