I swipe my card and unleash hell

Detaching my sensibilities, I approach the office compound, dig out my access card and press it to the sensor to release the door. It’s time to do battle in the gladiatorial arena I call work.

Until I can free myself at the day’s end, I’m forced to confront an array of sensory trials and cognitive fuckduggery in return for a decent career and a regular wage.

The assault begins with a walk through a cavernous antechamber to the lift; an oppressive, dangling metallic cubicle, forcing you closer to strangers than you’d choose to be with family or friends. At this point I’m still transitioning from ‘me’ time, so it’s easy to be caught off guard by a work colleague eager to mention the weather or some such banality. Clumsily responding to their attempts at conversation, I move into the office.

Like many the world over, the office is a vast, candescent open expanse, filled with row-upon-row of heads, imprisoned between desks and computer screens. Though the concept often escapes me, each of these heads belong to sentient individuals. I don’t know many of them. That unnerves me, however, the challenges involved in actively getting to know them is even more troubling.

As I walk further into the melee, I’m struck by voices competing for attention, competing with unanswered phones, and competing with music and YouTube videos aired through tinny computer speakers. After sitting down I become increasingly aware of the fluctuating temperature, akin to being trapped in an airing cupboard one minute and a walk-in refrigerator the next.

Beyond the actual work, which can be stressful enough, the biggest pinch points of the day are the colleague interactions. This is particularly pertinent in the staff kitchen where there’s less opportunity for escape. What to say? I could talk about the weather, last night’s TV, plans for the weekend. I’d rather abrade my scrotum with a cheese grater.

After years of determined observation I’ve decoded the rudiments of this social language. However, it’s not natural to me. I have to plan for it and work hard to maintain it, which drains my energy. It’s like working another full-time job. No wonder I’m ready for bed as soon as I get home; I’ve essentially been working overtime every day for more than two decades.

Some days I can cope better than others. When I have a big, clearly briefed project booked, I can get away with walking in and getting my head down with only so much as a ‘good morning’, followed by a ‘good bye’ when I leave. This is when I do my best work.

Mid-morning, a colleague decides to strike up conversation with me. I’m not ready for it. I’ve only just begun to acclimatise to my surroundings and squirrel my mind away into my work. I make some monosyllabic response, but I’m not being rude. I’m not even here. I’ve found a mental space that enables me to do my work and stay sane.

In an effort to fit in, I used to join my colleagues for lunch in the canteen, but I found myself more exhausted than ever at the end of the day. When lunchtime arrives, I seek somewhere quiet to read or play a game. I’m recharging.

With all the social conventions ticked off, come afternoon, surely I can get ahead in my work. At least that’s the intention. However, faced with some sort of post-sugar-carb slump the afternoons erupt with chatter, laughter and mass movement, making concentration tougher than ever. Donning a pair of noise-reducing headphones limits the distractions, but with my senses dulled, I’m fraught with the fear of someone pouncing on me for information at any moment.

Despite the clear and present dangers, I draw on the last of my resources to finish the work. It’s not necessarily my best, but it’s good enough. The end of the contracted day arrives, and yet no one appears to be moving. I’m always on time, often early, so why can’t I leave? If there’s an unwritten rule to stay late, please write it down. My focus has frayed, my resolve has dissolved and my willpower has wondered off. Let me go so I may fight another day.