Killing myself (mentally, not actually)
I wasn’t done with work on Friday around 5:30. But I was ready to sign off with immense relief that we doubled free content … survived untold amounts of technical difficulties … and lived through six bonus meetings (on top of the regular 10).
Then the boss made sure to remind me that something wasn’t done. (Out of the 14.) And when I said there were some technical difficulties — as Teams shit the bed — he said well you guys didn’t track changes and we need to track changes.
BRO.
When you gave me this shit pile of an assignment, which I will generously call 5,000 words of AI slop, not once did anyone say track changes.
I hired the industry’s best editor.
Who has enjoyed the project.
But who has also struggled with redoing the AI and checking the 47 footnotes that AI found.
Now, normal Goddess would be like you’re gonna love it now leave me to it.
But Goddess who slept a grand total of 12 hours over the WEEK from all the extra hours and panic attacks has some words for you.
Most of which are under five letters.
I was going to sign off on this Friday night not with a clean slate, but with satisfaction.
Instead, I signed off with wine and an hour worth of tears.
I am so tired. So tired. SO TIRED.
I worked so hard.
I tried so hard.
And the no tracked changes thing killed me.
I gray rocked and said this person did an amazing edit — they loved the content, they treated it with care, they enjoyed the fact checking very much — but I was like for fuck’s sake, I hired the best person for the job and they are only slow because it wasn’t as good as you thought it was. But the first draft I saw from them was actually readable and draft 2 is going to be so much better. God bless them and they deserve a medal.
Then I thought fuck it, I deserve a medal. My whole team does.
And I cried a bunch more.
I remember when we were in college. We’d ask each other what we were going to do that night or the next day.
And we’d reply, “I’m going to kill myself, then I’m going to go get a sandwich.”
Now, one of us actually DID kill ourselves.
So I keep reminding myself not to say that.
And I think, god, all those times we laughed when she said she was going to kill herself.
Then she did.
And I can count on 17 hands how many times I said to myself this week, “I should just kill myself.”
Even Claude has picked up on it. And i’ve had to ask him to quit sending me mental health resources.
But … at what point does someone snap and decide, well, I could go into my second performance review of the year being told how I’m not doing enough …
While I’m ready to kill myself because I am tired of not being honored for doing what I do?
Like if I can just stomp on a treadmill and plan one event a year, or if I can fart out one trade every six months when everyone else is doing it once a week … but then I as the manager am held accountable for their performance … what if I just offed myself and the cats and left my cousin to donate my shit to Habitat …
Why don’t I?
This isn’t the wine. The wine is keeping me FROM killing myself. As are the cats. Like Maddie prevented my suicide attempt in 2004.
I’m not done with life. But I’m done with white men who make me want to be.