Those who can, do. Those who can’t, get fast-tracked into a management position.
During the years I’ve spent working at this particular circus, my alleged betters really went the extra mile to ensure that my distress tolerance got turned all the way up to eleven. It’s probably why I’ve managed to survive the various health crises my shitty genetics have thrown at me. On the off chance there’s a Hell, I will probably fit right in.
I used to be in middle-management, but my obvious distaste for rectal spelunking saw me being demoted back into the ranks of the competent. I am now a “specialist”, which means my charge-out rate is extortionate, but my take-home is pitiful. It’s a bitter pill to swallow, but it is still vastly better than coprophagia.
However, if that’s your thing, we may have an opening for you.
The most recent recrimination recitation went about as well as can be expected.
At the conclusion of the session, the marriage counsellor stood and said, “Ok, let’s continue this next time. I can fit you in a fortnight from now.” When I responded, “Oh, we’re not coming back here. There is no fucking point,” he gave me the Surprised Pikachu look and stammered, “B-but w-whyyyy?” I countered with, “Do you genuinely believe that you have helped in any way? Seriously, that’s not a rhetorical question”. His answer was, “There’s no need to be rude! Make sure you lock the gate when you leave” and he stalked out of the room, muttering darkly to himself. What a soft bitch! Obviously, that was money well spent.
It was also the first time in weeks that the future ex lost the steel grip that she’s kept on her emotions when she realised I have had enough of her shit. Or maybe it was because she’s sad the game is over. Doesn’t matter. I think I saw actual tears. We live in a time of miracles, people!
If I’m to be the bad guy, then I have no reason not to lean into it.
So it turns out I was wrong. Yes, yes, I know that could mean anything, but in this case I’m referring to the consultation my estranged wife and I had with a marriage counsellor yesterday. In recent weeks, the breakdown of our relationship has dominated my thoughts, but I’ve been painfully aware that I don’t have an objective perspective on it. This was to be the counsellor’s role: to provide that external insight to help us find our way back to one another.
Or not. My wife spent the session listing my myriad wrongdoings and complaining that literally everything I do irritates her. Whenever she paused for breath, counsellor would narrow his eyes and ask me if I could understand how frustrated she is and how my actions or inactions would make her resentful. Whenever I tried asking what I should do, she would ignore the question and add another sin to the growing pile. Then the counsellor would trot out a pointless platitude, like “when you deprive a fire of oxygen, it goes out”. According to him, I should have “stepped up”, but he wasn’t able to provide any clues as to what “stepping up” looks like. Also, it seems that my wife pushing me away was perfectly fine, but my subsequent withdrawal was nothing short of heinous. She had no responsibility whatsoever to communicate what she wanted in actual words. I should have been able to figure it out from her anger and loathing, because those emotions are so nuanced.
At the end of Joel Schumacher’s 1993 masterpiece “Falling Down“, Michael Douglas’s character, William Foster, is confronted on the pier by Sergeant Prendergast. Foster is told that he’s not the good guy in the story. The confusion on his face as he tries to process this information is heartbreaking. His entire world world shifts in that moment and he is utterly lost.
When our counselling session ended I knew exactly how Bill felt.
I’m the bad guy?
Yeah.
How’d that happen? Apparently, what you are seeing here is my villain origin story unfolding.
My engineering background has taught me that as long as your assumptions are sound, your conclusions will be reasonable. Obviously, you make adjustments as better data becomes available, but the point isn’t to hit the bullseye on the first try, it’s to get on the board so you can calibrate your aim. But how do you hit the target if the lights are off?
I’m the bad guy? I am as confounded by this revelation as Foster was and I feel the foundations of my reality crumbling. I have never been so completely wrong about something like this before. All I can say is thank god for my sister and my friend Schroedinger, who were both there for me when I really needed it and managed to talk me down from the edge. They don’t seem to mind that I’m a villain.
On a scale of one to Muriel, I’m terrible. I’m no neurologist, but I suspect my mouth is connected directly to my brainstem. It often runs way ahead of my crippled cerebellum and by the time my two long-suffering brain cells arrive on the scene, the valves controlling the floodgates of consequence have been smashed to tiny bits.
My burial in the nether regions of the office is starting to feel normal. The solitude is helpful in moderating my more self-destructive impulses when dealing with management. I have more time to Think About What I Have Done and it gives me the opportunity to spend quality time bonding with the rat that lives in my hard-hat.
The stimulus deprivation hallucinations are fun, too.
Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak Whispers the o’er-fraught heart and bids it break.
Macbeth Act IV, Scene 3
I’ve been leaning rather heavily on my friends and family of late. Selfish of me, I know. People don’t always comprehend the nature of the burden they are offering to share, so it’s easy to become overwhelmed. Consequently, I’ve tried to dial it back a bit, with varying degrees of success.
My emotional mind is a bit of weird place right now. The voice in my head – the observer – sometimes loses focus and goes off on its own to wander the emptiness of liminal space like a confused dementia patient lost in a shopping mall. I’m sure it’s not normal to dissociate for extended lengths of time, but I have spent so much of my working life in meetings that it’s almost second nature now. The key difference is I don’t get an Outlook notification for these episodes.
There’s a fuzzy edge to sanity. Clarity is reserved for those who aren’t anywhere near it.
the other side of the mountain 