Suspended Living
As the morning commute of traffic congests the main roads, I am in limbo inside my flat. By 7:00 a.m. I am already alert and pacing between rooms. (Although last night I fared with little to no sleep, tossing side to side till the early hours of the morning. I remembered the LED glare of the alarm clock beamed at me with the numbers “4:57”.)
Now, I am frantically making preparations for the day ahead. Relieving myself on the loo, brushing my teeth rigorously, splashing ice-cold water on my face to ward off the distress.
Mindless self-chatter of “It’ll be fine” and “You’ve got this, Isaac'' mutters between my lips, as I roll on the deodorant on my armpits. But despite this reassurance, bouts of fluttering thoughts swarm me. The dreaded Monday meeting inches closer and closer - less than three hours left till 10:00 a.m.
The countdown commences–
– I hear the minute and hour hands at the forethought of my mind: tick-tock, tick-tock.
I sit back down on the dishevelled bed, trying to compose myself.
Despite this, I shrivel under the glare of the LED clock on my nightstand, as another digit advances ahead in time.
Before I know it, I lie across the bed enveloping myself in the duvet’s comforting embrace…
No, Get it together Isaac, Christ’s sake!, the thought jolts me upright.
‘It’s just a typical Monday meeting, it’ll be fine,’ an unconvincing lie I tell myself while my fingers quiver, as they cautiously button the white shirt and fasten my tie. A fitting noose around my neck.
Except it’s not a typical meeting, as I’m giving a presentation to clients today…
… Do I have all the analysed data prepared?
… Will they be pleased with the progress?
… Good god, I hope it doesn’t get postponed.
There will be no relief in sight for the day ahead.
I can think of nothing else. Every single damned thought is about that bloody meeting. It's all I care about. Why does it strangle me into submission? It’s just a presentation - done remotely - in front of strangers - and members of the executive board - that could jeopardise my chance at a promotion. Oh wait… that’s why.
I vigilantly comb back stray strands of wispy hair across my thinning scalp. I apply the gel gingerly. I inspect my greying beard, ensuring that it’s not an inch longer than necessary. Then, I glance down at my fingernails - are they cut short? - For Christ’s sake Isaac, they won’t see your bloody hands!
By 8:00 a.m., I seat myself at the dining table and nibble aimlessly on breakfast - a bit of apricot jam on white toast, hard-boiled eggs and a mug of Earl Grey tea to curb the hunger - as I pretend to read the latest headlines in my newsfeed. Meanwhile a recurring firework display of questions explodes into view:
Will it start exactly on time, or will there be a delay? Will it be cancelled entirely… and rescheduled for another day? Oh god, I can’t think of anything worse today… Who will I be speaking to? - Don’t be daft, you know some of your colleagues will be there and the client… What should I say? How should I speak - posh or laid back? How should I answer the call? How do I look? Should I wear something different?— Don’t be silly, they won’t care, for Christs’ sake!
But one peculiar thought sticks out, one that ushers in some hope: When will the meeting end?
All of a sudden, I hear my phone buzz in my hands. The notification startles me out of my angst-ridden haze. I venture to swipe down on my phone and read it:
“Your driver Adrian will deliver your parcel today between 9:00 and 12:00. It requires a signature upon delivery.”
My eyes widen in disbelief. ‘Good god, no this has to be a mistake,’ I find myself uttering to the kitchen. How did I forget that it was arriving today, of all days?
‘They never arrive this early!’, I yell throughout the flat, the frustration contorting on my face like a bear snarling at wandering hikers in the woods. What lunacy is this? Has someone devised this scheme to piss me off?
The agitation pulses through me, a whip crack across my back. I stiffen in place. My legs bounce like a piston engine revving up the momentum. Within moments, I abandon the leftovers on the table, darting to grab my laptop. My fingers click-clack across the keyboard as I scrutinise my powerpoint presentation - tweaking here and there - adjusting it so everything will run seamlessly.
In the meantime, my ears are pricked, awaiting to hear the doorbell that could happen now - or several hours from now. I have no means to track the damned parcel, bound to remain idle between that time slot to provide a measly signature.
8:30 a.m. passes swiftly into 9:00 a.m.
My mind ruminates not only on the appointed hour of the video call, but now the parcel delivery coming to greet me at the door.
The presentation requires little pruning and I get some practice addressing the talk to my living room sofa. Yet… I still feel anxiety swelling inside me, a tornado swiftly heralding ruin in its path.
I'm patiently waiting, but the morning seems to drag on endlessly. It’s already 9:45 a.m. and I'm incapacitated, unable to act or do anything of my own volition. There’s plenty of work for me to do in the meantime - but I postpone it all till afterwards when both events have expired.
At my desk, I feel the intrusive thoughts brewing up to the surface yet again:
Oh god, there’ll be so many questions as well… will I be able to answer any of them? Stop it, it’s not an exam, just a meeting that’s all. You’ll do a great job, Isaac.
Another mug of Earl Grey percolates in the corner of my eye. My hands fidget with stationary, since everything is set-up on the laptop (I’m logged into Teams, the presentation is open and ready for sharing - and I check my appearance once more in the webcam for good measure), all I have to do is simply wait to join the video call.
There is nothing to fear. Nothing to fear at all…
But, I really want to do well at this job. That's all I can think about.
No, you’re dwelling on it - return to this moment. Breathe in, breathe out –
– my phone buzzed again. I scramble to it, swiping down to see that my parcel is “nearby”.
Oh god, oh god, not now, oh god, why does this always happen to me?!
I look at the laptop’s clock: it’s 9:52 a.m..
Jesus, I’ll have to awkwardly excuse myself from the meeting at some point. Please let it arrive beforehand…
I scan outside my home office window for any signs of a delivery van. There are none. My eyes are transfixed between the window and the time: 9:57 a.m.. Three minutes left. One hundred and eighty seconds before the calamity commences…
I pull my gaze away from the window and get comfortable in the chair. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.
I steal a glance at myself - I look far from calm and composed.
As the seconds dwindle closer, the tick tocks boom louder in my eardrums.
9:59 a.m.
I nervously sip on the mug of tea - forgetting how it was freshly brewed - and scald my tongue. A screech leaves my mouth as I try to recover. But I have no time left.
It’s 10:00 a.m.
I anticipate the moment to join the call –
– Ding-dong!
‘You’ve got to be kidding me…’ I mutter under my breath, then I curse aloud as I retreat from the desk to answer the door.
One fumbling moment later, seasoned with British politeness, and I safely tuck away the signed parcel to the side. After I bid “have a good day” to the delivery driver, I withdraw with seething resentment furrowing across my face. I hurry back to the chair and scour for a notification to join the meeting - but there is none.
Confusion seeps in. A raised eyebrow across my forehead beckons me to my phone immediately - an email from Sandra received at 10:06 a.m. It read:
“Morning,
Meeting is rescheduled for 2 p.m.
Regards,
Sandra”
‘Are you fucking kidding me Sandra…?’ I reply tersely in the comfort of my home (but never in the email - I’m not a moron).
Not only did she notify me - the speaker - late about the rescheduled time, but she has the audacity to end with “Regards”?
I hate my job.
I type back with heavy reluctance:
“Morning Sandra,
Okay, looking forward to giving my presentation today at 2 p.m.
Warmest Regards,
Isaac Finch”
I send it away, compelled to serve my boss with cordiality. Only a minute later, I regret saying “warmest regards”.
The nightmare doesn’t end.
I had other things to attend to this afternoon. But not yet. No, now everything is in disarray. Clarity doesn’t exist in a headspace fraught with anxiety.
Any semblance of momentum has been deflated by this delay. No, not till this adjourned presentation enters the present and dissolves quickly into the past. Then, and only then, can I eventually return my attention to everything I have postponed.
However, the morning drags on its heels. I want to grab Father Time by the bollocks to coerce him into hurrying things up. I stare at the time (again): 11:18 a.m. Oh god, I just want to be done with the damned presentation and get on with my life!
Simple distractions come to my aid as I bide my time: I hop in the shower, attend to some (needless) grooming, check emails, make lunch (cheese ploughman’s sandwich and a packet of crisps) and watch TV sitcoms in the background. However, these activities only last for a fraction of time.
Soon, idle thoughts metastasize through me, catalysing anxious bouts of locomotion: nervous twitching, head-jerking, ceaseless pacing, ample fidgeting... it is relentless. I think about going for a walk: but what’s the point? That’s just relentless pacing outside.
It's impossible to resist.
Oh god, when will it be over?
I await the appointed deadline. However the seconds dwindle, minutes slowly encroach by as if the hour is taking its time to get ready for a night in the town.
Why, oh why does the time seem to either flee or remain at a standstill? I fixate on the digital clock interfaces on my devices, concentrating a telepathic will to expedite time according to my needs.
No such luck.
Instead, I wait. And I wait. And I wait.
Another five minutes pass. I dare a glance again; It’s only 12.42 p.m.?!
Even as I stare at the endless abyss of digital time, it taunts me with its unchanging nature. Oh, how it mocks my unbearable angst.
Oh god, just let it end already! Dammit, I've had enough.
Before I forget, add shower gel and eggs to the shopping list. Done. Barely took fifteen seconds.
What on earth am I doing? I have a backlog of work tasks to do! I could just focus on smaller things around the flat - But, I can’t seem to begin anywhere... House chores to undertake, errands to run, exercise to shrug off (till forever).
Instead, I am tensed up on the living room sofa, fidgeting with my hands, legs shaking like maracas - if someone came in now, they’d think I was nervously planning a bank heist or something.
I check my phone: no updates on the call. No apparent notifications either. It lights up, the wallpaper on the home screen, existing as a stilted stock photo of a cityscape with the clock infringed in bold white digits. The time suspended as the numbers “13:22”, barely flinching against my burning gaze.
The clocks chide me.
Time is an irrevocable, despicable temptress that promises both salvation and despair. It torments me, lingering on the precipice of each changing minute, yet also alludes me to the sweet release of freedom.
Any minute now. Soon I’ll be rid of this torment.
Less than an hour left. But more than half an hour to drift by.
But what if it gets delayed… again?
Nothing has been achieved today. Everything hangs precariously on the line, for the long-awaited video call now venturing on the horizon.
What to do, what to do, what to do…
I’ve already rummaged through the kitchen cabinets, gorging on a surplus of Dairy Milk chocolate bars, Tunnock’s caramel wafers and digestive biscuits. I dare head back for more... Screw it, I yearn for the sugar-high.
So far, all I’ve managed to do today is get fatter.
I’ve already resorted to some casual gaming at this point. Who can say “No” to another dopamine fix?
But it ends in tears, as I’m yelling and cursing at the tossers who keep killing me in Modern Warfare. I’m fuming, ready to hurl the controller in fury and burst into a tantrum.
1:45 p.m. Fifteen minutes left.
Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, what am I gonna do?!
It turns out that I’m not ready for this.
Panic erupts, a dormant volcano now bursting at the seams, spewing molten lava everywhere. Sweat drips through my pores, the pit stains drenched on my white shirt. Frantic thoughts and ideas zoom past before I get a chance to comprehend them properly.
Get it together Isaac, you’ve got one shot at this.
I quickly scrape off the trailing crumbs on my work shirt and trousers. I plug in my laptop charger in case it dies mid-conversation during the presentation. Everything is set up - but it’s been set up for the entire day now and I’m still crippled by bouts of overthinking nonsense.
The relentless pacing transitions midway to jogging between rooms, as I rehearse my lines: particularly my answers to blatant questions like, “Why do we see this trend?” “What are the KPIs here?” or the dreaded “What if we did this with the data instead?”...
...But my focus is spoiled by one sullen, reprehensible thought:
What if I fail and mess it all up?
I am at a loss. I have no words of comfort, except the old saying that my parents grew fond of: “Well, at least you tried, son. That’s all that matters.”
‘But is that enough?’, I find myself speaking as if I'm about to begin a monologue –
– My phone alarm buzzes. It’s 1:58 p.m.
There’s no time to think.
I sit down at the desk, preparing myself for the ordeal. No new emails on the phone declaring another reschedule.
It’s happening. It’s truly happening.
2:00 p.m. - the video call rings and I’m poised on the brink of disaster.
Oh god, here we go…
***
An hour and a half passes like a train bound for one platform, making no stops along the way.
Just like that, it is done.
I can’t believe it. In fact, I hardly remember it at all. Only a vague recollection slips in: the nervous chitter-chatter of “erms”, “basically”, and “give me a second”; the innocuous flailing hand gestures across my screen; the skittish anticipation as I waited for the interrogation of questions; and the astonishment on my face as I was applauded for the talk.
Did I… actually do well?, a perplexing thought even as an incoming email from the boss commends me with tremendous feedback (“Great Job! - Sandra”).
It’s done.
How… unremarkable it all had been. Why was I so afraid?
I handled it better than I thought. I handled it.
The ordeal has been conquered.
Phew, it is over. The wave of relief washes away the burdens strapped to my head. The dreaded moment has passed. For god sake, I can finally calm down.
Suddenly, an email notification pops up on my phone screen. I swipe down. It reads:
“REMINDER: You have a dentist appointment this Tuesday at 3:40 p.m.”
Wide-eyed, mouth ajar, I have no words to spare.
The nightmare never ends. Where do I draw the line against this incessant madness?
Who am I kidding, I’ll succumb to this torture over and over again.
Here we go. The countdown commences…
…Only forty-eight hours left.
There’s always that internal resistance of fear, reminding us that we may not be able to handle the outcome if things go awry. But in truth, we can handle it. We just can’t see the outcome yet. For anyone who experiences this feeling to a similar extent, please know that you’re not alone. Mental illness is always a struggle, but it doesn’t mean we have to go through it by ourselves - please seek out support and comfort from those who love you. Communicate your experiences, in the hopes that another person can empathise and understand your pain.