I Have A Problem
See, ever since striking off on my own, landing my first job (a terrible one which overworked all its employees), and becoming accustomed to adult life I’ve had an adverse reaction to escapist enjoyment. I like it, or rather I like the idea of it, but in the back of my mind is a constant ticking clock - a reminder that enjoying this time means that said time is slipping away.
Now on its face this seems preposterous, I know. What else am I going to do with my free time? Simply stare at a wall? Scroll mindlessly online? If one cannot enjoy art or books or games or shows or movies, how does one engage with others and, to a degree, with culture writ large?
The answers to those questions are: Nothing. Pretty much. Yeah, sometimes. You don’t really.
Don’t get me wrong, I do still find time to engage in escapism, but it has to be a dedicated time. It has to have free hours before and after. Reading a book after work or watching a movie before bed is simply not something I’m good at convincing myself to do. I feel I must not let the time I am conscious slip away, as if by enjoying that time I will, somehow, lose it.
Again, I know this is illogical, but brains are not always the most sensible of thinking tools.
If I had to guess, I would suspect this was born of my early work life. Of working 80 hour weeks, ensuring I got at least 6 hours of sleep (which wasn’t enough incidentally), finding time to keep up with errands and cleaning and, of course, feeding myself. I had it meticulously charted as much as I could with the constant changes to my shifts.
The math was thus: there are 168 hours in a week. I spent 80 working (at least), 42 sleeping (at least), and 14 on personal hygiene, errands, eating, etc.
168 - 80 - 42 - 14 = 32
32 hours per week were all I had to simply exist, to be a person, to be something other than a drone that was barely keeping itself in acceptable levels of repair. And if you note that I had one day off per week, and that that day was mostly spent on necessities and recovery, you remove another 24 hours from that sum.
So I had 8 hours over 6 working days to myself, for myself, assuming I only got 6 hours of sleep per day. Basically a little over an hour a day. That’s it. That’s all.
I drank a lot of whiskey and watched a lot of Bob Ross in those hours. Bob Ross kept me sane.
It’s easy to see, though, how someone in that situation would become greedy with their time. I held those hours dear. They were my most precious commodity. I wanted to extend them as long as possible, to grasp every second, hold the turning of the clock hostage. I learned very quickly I could not do so and sink myself in another world, in art, in anything. Just Bob Ross, who I could easily turn away from, and whiskey, which was one of the few joys I could afford.
And so I have a problem. Despite my having more free time now, despite my life progressing to a point of general comfort (though not quite financial comfort), and despite my desire to engage, to think, to ponder, and to share - I simply cannot bring myself to let the hours drift away. That old instinct is well fed and strong, grasping my mind, paralyzing my desire. I become a step or two removed. I want to want to enjoy things, and I never make the leap into enjoyment.
I’m working on breaking this habit. Acknowledging its existence is a big step, action will be the bigger next step.
But I think the thing that sticks with me more than my own personal struggle is the societal implication. By no means was I the only one to have to work long hours for little pay. By no means was the struggle of keeping my humanity intact while being forced into the role of a labor machine a problem unique to me. This is not a woe is me, it is a woe is us. Woe betide our culture, its death built by the broken bodies it leaves in its wake. Woe betide our future, its economy poised to topple and crush the rest of us.
I’m in a better place now, and I know plenty would be envious even of the place I was before. And in that is a parable. Because I still have a problem.
But we have a tragedy.