Another one of those fucking nightmares.
They always look different, sometimes with the real people there, sometimes not, but the theme is always the same.
Why do they always happen after a good day?
I’m back at my old office, but it doesn’t look like my old office.
They look different, but I know it’s them. And they know me.
And they watch.
Everyone is whispering. IM’s fly across our small cyber space. The faux sympathy. Sly eyes that watch, oh how they watch, but they don’t, won’t meet mine.
I keep my head down, avoid all contact, and work.
Wait for the hammer to fall.
My heavily drugged mind is still hyper with anxiety.
Have I done everything?
Did I meet everyone I was supposed to meet?
Have I tried everything I could to get that deal?
Have I answered every email today?
Have I approached every client?
Waiting for the hammer to fall.
He’s at the other end of the office.
I can feel his eyes staring through the glass wall.
I feel you, you worm. I see you, don’t think for one moment that I don’t.
Can I fight the accusations?
Do I have an answer for this?
Do I have a counter for that?
Can I prove this?
Prove he did do that?
I KNOW he’ll never admit it.
THEY know he did it, but they’ll never admit it.
So we’re all just counting out time.
Waiting for the hammer to fall.
I know it’s going to happen.
They accuse, they threaten, they allude, they condemn.
They collude, they join forces, they circle.
I may be mad, but I’m not stupid.
Why don’t they move?
Make your move cowards.
Make. Your. Move.
I go into meetings.
No one will tell me much.
I go to trade shows and walk the carpeted halls as if in a dream.
I meet with clients I’ve known for years, and even they look at me with different eyes.
Kindly but in their passivity and concern, condemning me too.
Poor thing. Having a breakdown they say. Can’t cope with the stress.
You bastards. You fucking slanderous bastards. How dare you?
Bring it, you bastards. I’m not afraid of you anymore.
Scabby, skulking fucking hyenas.
Because the suspense is literally killing me.
But I hold on.
I will not break.
I don’t want to stay, but I want them to admit it.
I don’t want to stay, but I want the sheep to see it.
I don’t want to stay, but they will not see me crumble.
Please God help me to hold on.
You hurt, you threaten, you cite, you counter, you accuse but I see what’s in your eyes.
The stress, the fear and yes, the shame.
The shame, palpable under the corporate bluster and bullshit.
You think a swanky job title means you’ve achieved greatness?
You think that designer suit makes you a big man?
You think you can use my depression to beat me with, in defence of a guilty man ‘for the good of the company’?
Because money is more important than honour? Integrity? Ethics?
I may be at the end of my rope, but I’m glad I’m not you.
Be afraid you fuckers. Be very afraid.
Because you know just what you do.
And to whom you do it to.
The looks, the whispers, the sly smiles, the faux platitudes just keep on coming.
And as the day goes on, the atmosphere swells and stretches like the skin of an over inflated balloon that’s about to explode.
Because it is.
Because I don’t know if I can hold on anymore.
But don’t expect to be on your feet when this fucker blows.
Because you’re coming with me.
Every last one of you.
I wake in a sweat and find one of my little cat soldiers, Charlie gazing at me in that concerned way of his. He then proceeds to wipe his chops all over me, marking me as his own.
Probably just to spite Dexter cat. 🙂
What is this shit about? Is it because I can’t cope with people actually liking me? Is it my fear of working again? Or is it simply down to drinking too much on top of my meds?
Hungover as I am, I’m off to bootcamp.
Need to sweat some of this shit out….