There are days when the depression can’t be held at bay, when no matter how much you’ve put into accepting that this is the way your life is, and the prospects of change are beyond your influence, the reality of the situation is too stark to be resisted, and you have no mental energy with which to do anything.
These are days when the job becomes tiresome and frustrating, when the calls that aren’t even for your discipline get harder to handle, when the manifest errors of the new diagnostic system become too wearisome to fight back against, and when that determination to go the extra mile in pursuit of the customer’s need becomes a tired inability to even reach across the desk.
And the shift that has already lasted most of your life, because your head is emptier than an empty shell, still has two more hours to last, and you’ve run out of the telephone voice and the energy to sound concerned, and identify what’s wrong, and talk them through without wanting to scream at them down the phone, because you’ve promised to do what is needed to fix the fault, what they’ve been asking you to do all along, and they’re still not satisfied.
There are many different categories of clients and on different days you hate different types more than others but there is a special hell even on good days in dealing with the customer who won’t take Yes for an answer.
Sometimes, most days, when it gets like this I can carve out a little time in the day to write something: for my blog, for one of the several potential novels I have had in mind for the last few years, for the sequel to Love Goes to Building on Sand that I have been cheerfully batting out, about which I’ve yet to decide whether this will be a publishable project, or a personal indulgence.
But my head is empty. I have no energy for words, no concentration. This is as far as I have gotten because I can’t think of anything else. Call it a little reality implant, in amongst the generally comic attitude I usually try to display.