By about 10am this morning, I was ready to call time of death on the day and hightail it back to the safety of my bed’s blanket cocoon. You might say, well, that’s what you get for kicking things off with an HR training. And I’d respond, yes, you’re right and I’m a fucking idiot.
I’m starting to keep track of how often I hold myself back, shut myself up, and shrink myself inward in order that I might get through the day without leaving too much of a wake. I self-minimize to excel; I would not make it far in this work environment if I allowed myself to take up too much space.
This morning, I was supposed to learn the skills and strategies to be a more effective supervisor. The Cliff Notes* version: individualize, dehumanize, and decontextualize. I’ve read too much. I’ve heard too many stories. I’ve been fucked over too many times. My colleagues nibbled at donuts and scribbled pages upon pages of notes. I sipped coffee and wrote only to have something to do with my hands besides pick at spare bits of skin on my face.
Home, finally. My upstairs neighbors may be moving? I can’t imagine what other activities would create the loud bangs and scrapes and slams that are forming the backdrop to my evening. I grab my headphones, crack open the new ‘zine that was waiting in my PO box this afternoon, and try to let myself unfurl from the tightly coiled secret I’ve wound myself up in today.