It’s not about the food
it’s about the mess
I want this less
I don’t know how to confess
the mess
duress
undress
the mess
my mess
I cant
trust
ways that I am over this.
I don’t want to speak—
it’s the silence that feeds my dissatisfaction
I am a recovering people pleaser
as they say
I’d rather whither away
cry in my office daily
suffer loads of emotional pain than say
“Hey, this is too much.”
I dont know why this phrase scares me
It pushes me and pulls me
and makes things in my stomach hurt.
It makes me tired at the gym
I swipe more on apps I dont even want to have.
I am torn apart by systemic issues,
I could have a hand
But instead
I choose
keyboards
paper drafts
digital drafts
daydreams of websites
conversations with companies I do not yet know
I bide my time
Wondering about where I might end
but afraid to begin
because I can’t get to those map places
until
I say
“Hey. I need help.”
“Not a lot of help.”
“I feel ashamed because it’s just a little help.”
“It’s a gap I should be able to fill on my own.”
“It’s just a small thing.”
“If you could just schedule the remote workers and I’ll handle everyone in-person.”
“If you could just take all of the responsibilities off of my plate the week before my huge deadline, I would be grateful.”
“I’m wondering if you could be more clear about what tasks you would like done and in what order.”
“Could you give me supporting documents?”
These sentences haunt me.
They are simple.
Direct.
They do not leak incompetence.
They do not smell of disinterest.
I do not taste needy,
or dramatic,
or unqualified when I land them on my tongue.
But what I see
Is
isolation.
Books full of
rubbing dirt on things
that needed kisses instead.
What I hear is
pride
deciding they are tougher
than the ego
smarter
than the arrogance
faster
than
individualistic work.
So I wallow in these words
The worlds these moments these magics.
When I could just speak.
But the words catch in the throat.
There must be cactus there.
I must not know how to swallow.
This is probably why I don’t drink enough water.
I dont want to kill the delicate plants that live in my chest by giving them too much of a good thing.
I think about the logs I’m trying to grab hold of in that turbulent storm.
I wonder if they are keeping me afloat.
Or if they are drowning me.
If I let go
How I will make it to one shore
or to another log
Or sink
straight down
to the bottom.
I dont know how to have these conversations.
I dont know how to speak these words,
I think it starts with an email.
I try to tone down how passive-aggressive I have been.
I try to say:
“I know I have been a pill”
I try to follow up with
“But I am feeling really hung out to dry.”
I start over
“I know I have been hard to deal with”
There I go, apologizing for existing again. It’s exhausting to think you cannot exist. It’s impossible not to exist if you exist already. Circular reasoning. Old patterns, hard fates.
“Thank you for your patience,”
I start.
“I have a difficult time sometimes.”
Dont say too much. They dont need the whole story.
“I appreciate the work so far, and I would also like to shift gears.”
Is this clear enough?
Do I demand too much?
Is this entitlement? Or clarity?
“Is there any way we could meet and refine what my job expectations are?”
I am screaming inside—
I can do it, the voice says. I can do everything you need me to do, I just will get less sleep, I will just plan my meals better. I will work out more efficiently. I will take 20 minutes less with the people I love each day. What is a little bit. What is a compromise. What is this now. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I am fine I am fine I am fine.
“Shut up.” I say to that voice.
Please. I hear you trying to protect me and be strong but you are keeping me from growth.
“I am feeling overwhelmed and I could use some help reframing, redefining, and redistributing my work load for our next set of projects.
Is there any way we could have a conversation how to best do that for us both?”
“I look forward to speaking with you.”
I try to drag the log with me to shore.
Dagny Deutchman 