Saturday, Mar. 02, 2024 - 11:50 am.
This was our first week back to work after a month off. I'd have ended up burned out, exhausted and anxious about what's to come if it wasn't for my efforts to not give a fuck. It's working! It takes quite a bit of mental energy trying to adjust cognitions and emotions, but it's kept me more calm and efficient than I would be if I responded automatically.
However, if I responded with raw emotions, they wouldn't be out of place. I have every right to be annoyed, fucking angry even, and stressed about certain aspects of my workplace, and some things deserve to be broken or set on fire. It's just that letting this out and dwelling on it and fighting people in my head does not do me any good.
For the time being, I'm learning to be like this. It means letting some people get away with stuff that keeps me from doing my job, like the people in finances who gave me information on how to handle a budget that's my own but not my own (yeah) a year later after I got it, now that I've overspent and I'm reporting all expenses wrong. Thanks a lot.
At the same time, it's very likely they're not ill-intentioned. They're stupid as they can't scroll up in our email chain to avoid gaslighting me with a document they say I didn't attach when I did; and they're condescending when I make mistake by acting on information I don't have and they should have given me a year ago, but... they're nice? Also, they may not think so negatively about me the way I think they do, but so what if I'm right? I have no control over their perceptions of me. Do your damn job and let me do mine.
I'm learning to be like this. It means I'm now in charge of a Gender Committee, set up thanks to the struggles of the feminist movement back in 2018, but that entails dedicating six hours of my week to organize a one-hour International Women's Day event so a man, the Faculty Dean, can speak for three minutes. I know the rules of this awful game, and I know what I was getting into. I was chosen to run this committee because I do a damn good job in sexuality and gender issues, but in the end it's just another woman taking on a heavier workload trying to convince the world that we're humans.
I know the people who put me in charge trust me with this. And they will betray me, us, the cause, eventually. They've put on the political facade of championing gender equality, and some of that is sincere, but it's mostly good will and zero self-critical labor. I'm a woman, but also white-passing, straight-passing, an academic in an ivory tower. I still have some advantages and I can use them to try to stir some shit up in Trojan Horse style, to give a platform to folks who have something to say. That is, before the authorities find someone more suitable to their status-quo needs, someone sufficiently mediocre and camera-ready.
I'm out to do a good job. Do it for a good job's sake, because it's the right thing to do, because it will hopefully help others; but also I'm using this post, on top of my other posts, to gain a reputation of a killer academic that will allow me to firmly stand up for myself and others. I don't know if I'll get to that point but hey, it's my job to try. It's not my life, it's not my personality. I'll do what I can, but not at the cost of my mental health and inner peace.
Next week will be a huge part of those efforts. Not that I sought that it turned out this way, but on Tuesday I give the final presentation of my three-year-long government-funded postdoc research. On Thursday I have to be at the Gender Committee stand at the Faculty's Freshers Fair in the afternoon. And on Friday, I have this one-hour event which will be awesome but still a taxing thing to put together. The good news is that I love what I do, and even if not a lot of people show up, there will be conversations about it.
Also next week, I'll be in an online presentation of the anthology book by the big publisher which contains a short story of mine. I've been reading the book. I hate to shit on fellow authors, but some stories are boring, more telling than showing or with an easy way out. Or maybe I'm just reading them on the surface. I mean, I was reading those and I thought "oh, God, is that how I sound that, too? Is that why I'm in this thing?". And I do think my story has conversation points besides what's on the paper. So who the fuck knows. At least I got paid (kidding, I'm grateful that I was considered for the anthology, some of the other authors have quite a trajectory).
Onto more serious matters. My mom is sick. Like, really sick. "We should be prepared as a family" said by my brother who is a doctor- type of sick. Her health has been in decline for months, though it's been years of a bunch of issues (i.e., two-times cancer patient) plus a lifetime of domestic stress. By now, my parents' life revolve around their illnesses, their living locked up in their house, their stiff habits and viewpoints, their conservative gendered roles that took a toll on my mom and that I think sucked the life out of her. It's a solidified dynamic that won't be countered by anything at this point.
My mom cannot gain weight and has a lot of trouble breathing (besides her fragile bones, screwed-up digestive system, occasionally coughing fits and nauseas, etc...). She's been through all kinds of test (also exhausting) which have turned out negative. But it seems there is a malfunction in her lungs. There's discussions in my siblings' group chat that oxygen might help her alleviate this. But the clock is ticking and she's not making progress in her recovery.
To be fair to my dad, he's on top of all things medical regarding healthcare for my mom. He went with her to medical appointments, limited mobility and all, until my siblings had to kindly but repeatedly ask him not to, for his safety and so that the caretaker who was already accompanying her could focus on her needs. I don't think his personality nor his gender-related beliefs have been of big help throughout their life together, but he loves her and does all he can for her.
If this is the way things are going, I can only pray she'll wait for me, for Andrew and me, when we get there in May. I always prayed that, as horrible as that sounds, that my dad would go first so she could have a few years of freedom and peace for herself; I think of two family parties we attended and my dad was just sitting at a table all pissed off because my mom was dancing, so my mom didn't dance a lot, and how painful it is to deal with someone hating on your joy for 50 years. But she's also very stuck in her duties as a wife so she gave up many things about herself, and maybe she wouldn't last long after he was gone either.
I guess the above will make me cry tears of rage if/when she dies. I think about my parents' death here and there, and again that's horrible, but I do so because there's no turning back. They're not gonna get better enough to fly half a continent to come meet my home and my child. They're not getting better at all. I do that because I try to be "prepared" so it won't hit me as hard when it happens, which is of course bullshit; I'm already crying. And I do that because my siblings, particularly the two who live in the same country as my parents and mostly my sister, also need to be free. They need to flee that hellish country (e.g., this week, all references of gender and LGBT+ have been wiped from health services and school curricula...not that there wasn't much to begin with, but what was there was valuable and the product of long-time activism).
On top of all, I can't believe how easily a genocide, genocideS, are happening with all impunity and backed by the cheers of many. I refrained from following Palestinian accounts run by civilians or journalists for fear that one day they'll just stop posting, but I gave in with one, and I get a knot in my throat every time she pops on my feed. I'm at a loss of words over how uncontested it goes that someone murders starving people who were just trying to get some flour. I'm scared for them. I'm scared for the cruelty that can so easily and rapidly seep into the fabric of a collective. I'm always scared that we'll be next, and no one will save us either.
Whew. At least I have this place to vent and to remind me that I'm safe right now, and to put things into perspective. I'm privileged enough to be safer than many people for longer if shit goes down. I do try to manage my cognitions, my interpretations of events and related emotions, but I know very well that I'm dealing with a lot and I also have to take care of myself, of my little world. A lot of personal shit, family shit, global shit.
But I'm here now. I'm safe. I have a job that I like, I have a life that I cherish. I'm lucky to have Andrew who listens to me, holds me and cooks me lasagna; I'm here to take care of him too, and we're waiting for our child together. I'm lucky and grateful for having our own apartment on a 10th floor, that I like to imagine it's a moon base, with a view to the soundtrack of Tranquility Base - Hotel and Casino.