COVID-19 changed so much. And we rolled with the changes. I’ve been rolling with the changes and rolling and I’ve smacked hard into the retaining wall at the edge of the cliff. The only other option is to bounce right over that wall and keep rolling right off the damn cliff.
This is burnout. Or at least my metaphor for burnout, the brilliant idea I thought of on the drive to work and that I actually remembered all day. And it’s 4:14 p.m.
Some would argue that by that last paragraph I am not totally burnt out. Not if I can still remember something several hours later. Not yet, at least.
Other great descriptions and metaphors which demonstrate my verbal skills if nothing else:
You know that big pile of snow that gets pushed to the edges of the parking lot? It’s really densely compacted by the plow, so it’s like an Ice Age remnant regardless of the fluffiness of the original snowfall. And then the temp rises a bit above freezing and it’s sunny for a day or two or three. And that urban iceberg slowly shrinks. Except. There’s that one area that never quite gets direct sunlight/ It’s always in the shade of this building and then that one as the sun crosses overhead. And it won’t melt until the temp gets and stays above 60 for a couple of days. Or until it rains hard enough to drill into and fracture that final dense core. For me, anxiety is that core of ice – inside my chest in place of my regular heart. It pumps out a frozen sludge slushee, if anything at all, that slowly oozes around inside my circulatory system. So no, I’m not alright and a few deep breaths and maybe a yoga stretch won’t make me feel better.
There is a giant rubber band around my chest. It’s one of those rubber bands that seem perfectly normal until you try to stretch it a fraction of a millimeter. It doesn’t stretch. Not at all. Normal nonstretchy fabrics and plastics and other materials actual stretch more that this rubber band. And you wonder, “Did this rubber band somehow petrify?” That’s what this giant rubber band on my chest is – a stretchy substance desiccated and hardened until it is like a rock. “Why don’t you just say you have a rock on your chest?” you ask. Because I don’t. I have a rubber band which has become rock-like, but it didn’t start out that way. I know it was originally a normal giant rubber band with a diameter about that of an adult human c-cup torso. It could stretch. It dried and hardened and tightened and hardened some more and tightened just a bit more after it was on me. Because how else did it get around me? Rocks don’t have zippers. And because rocks – and rock-like rubber bands – don’t have zippers, I am trapped inside it forever.
There’s that point, maybe one minute thirteen seconds in, when you’re making popcorn in the microwave and it’s all pops. That’s all you can hear. You can’t even distinguish individual pops anymore. And you can imagine it: the bag fully inflated and swollen and the kernels, cooked and still holding out, are bouncing around in a wild crazy trampoline park stunt show. Without a net. I imagine the pops are the kernels whooping in excitement and exhilaration and joy. (Please don’t ruin it for me if you are or know a popcorn personal injury attorney.) I imagine this is what happens with electrons and neutrons, and what life is like for atoms inside a supercollider, probably because I understand literary hyperbole a lot better than I understand science. Except sometimes I imagine the screams of pain as the kernels explode because I want a snack at work. The bag, the microwave — it’s all just hideous torture that even the nastiest minds of the Inquisition couldn’t have dreamt. And that’s what’s going on inside my chest as a panic attack builds. And why I will curse at you with gritted teeth when you tell me to just calm down.
Annnnnd . . .
I had more. But they're gone now. I'm really impressed I got those two out of my head and on (virtual) paper without losing too much.
Actually, I had a thought on that, too, that I just remembered.
I believe when we have these deeply (almost spelled that with three 'e's, that how deep I'm talking) profound thoughts, or those really so extremely funny just witty on every level of humor thoughts, we only think we're thinking in words when really we're thinking in the abstract platonic ideal of whatever it is we're thinking. So of course it seems so utterly brilliant inside our heads and just so . . . flat . . . when we try to say or write out those ideas. It truly is absolute perfection in thought, but when put into words it's just, well, words. Words that can only convey so much. That can be misunderstood because of subtle nuances in our language and how a word's tone can shift ever so slightly as you move across the US, because English is never happy with actual definitions but needs to add connotations winking around the corner. And listeners can willfully misunderstand your words because they disagree with you and want you to look stupid and themselves look so clever.
I'm tired. I haven't slept well for over week and I'd say it shows.
Really, this was all so much better in my head.
p.s. I decided to use the "Do Not Feed the Vultures" sign as a warning label. If you see it as the cover image for a post, that will not be a happy post. Which I think is pretty self-explanatory. (So let me explain. Sorry.) Vulture = bad day.
Comments