My laptop is complaining that it has too little disk space. So is my online file storage. Downloading to my external hard drive has barely helped. Each day, the warning is declared. Disk: nearly full.
As for me, my disk is full. I can not work any harder, I cannot do any more, for anyone else. Each day, I am up with the sun, in Ox., if not in London, trying to get through as many written tasks, or to talk to as many people, as I can. Some people are disappointed. I cannot speak to everyone, immediately, some have to wait. They don’t like to wait.
While I am talking to people, the email keeps on coming in. I am finding it hard to get things finished, as I am distracted by more pressing tasks. For the past two weeks, I have had no time to stop, to reflect – at all.
Outwardly, for the past few weeks, it may have seemed that all was well – better than before. I have put in more hours and been more productive. I have not wound up paralysed by saddness or anxiety in a suicidal heap. The reason for this is because every minute of my time, as when I was in my early twenties, has been filled with activity, or sleep. All three hours of it a night.
What has not been seen is the bubbling wreck just underneath the surface. The energy it has taken not to meltdown in front of the parents insistent that my research is rubbish and useless, and should be re-thought from scratch. The energy to repress my anger with a group of schoolchildren, their half-with-it teaching assistant, who casually told me my prism glasses had “been dropped” after I’d asked the group, and her, please not to use them, there wasn’t enough space. The energy not to boil over at colleagues who have been less than helpful. Not to rile against letting agents, landlords, shirking their part of our contract.
It takes a great deal of effort, energy, to stay calm. Keeping calm is not calming. Peace is not having to stay calm, being able to reflect, to be still. I need to be still. I do not have time to be still.