burnout

My therapist told me I should tell my supervisor that my work is impacting my mental health. She’s right. And I should transfer to another department. I could work with drivers again like I did in the beginning, unfortunately for less pay but also a healthier balance instead of stressing over work, even when I’m gone. My days and nights consist of work, exercise, eating, and sleep, in that order. But work is on my mind all day about mistakes I’d made and the inundation of assignments, and when I’ll get fired. Where will I land?

A new marketing strategy they assigned on Thursday morning, one I don’t understand at all, possibly had to do with a bonus program for customers. I don’t know. I didn’t attend school for a degree in marketing, and so what are these buzzwords? Not only do I have to complete that assignment, but I also have to close my cases, prevent businesses from attrition, and answer emails that are three days old. And the list keeps growing. There aren’t enough hours in the day unless they expect me to work overtime which I refuse to do. They put me on a salary, and I’m haunted by the word expectations. Expectations, expectations, expectations… I can’t maintain, and I’m supposed to meet a quota each month, which I’m not even close to meeting. Our products suck, and most customers aren’t interested in buying. We’re far inferior to our competitors and do nothing close to competing, making everything a harder sell.

I have my own book of business with over three thousand clients, and I’m supposed to take care of them all. One of them was interested in staying with our company but was offered a deal from a competitor of a fifteen thousand dollar signing bonus, and he asked me what we could do to compete against the offer. I didn’t know. I’m clueless when it comes to marketing, and my company is full of so many stipulations that I had to ask the higher-ups what we could provide. And so the higher-ups decided for me to pitch a promo of five dollars off any order over thirty-five dollars. Are you kidding? I thought, how the hell would the owner reject the fifteen thousand dollars for a puny promo like what my company offered. Not to mention the customer was partially deaf, so I had trouble hearing him talk over the phone. At one point, he said, “Do you even know what you’re doing?” No. Not at all. He could tell I was inexperienced.

There are so many actions I can’t take. They go against company policy. I have to email everyone who wants me to set up their promotions, and they have to agree in the email and over the phone. The email has to be accurate, and I must show the email to the higher-ups to receive a credit, or I could be terminated. I don’t know how much commission I would make off each one, but I do know my payslips have been sad. I can’t make a living off this job, and they couldn’t make me work any harder.

I have to walk away to restore my sanity. I’m not sleeping. I’m no longer enjoying the simple pleasures. My job has clutched me at the throat. I’m cooked. I should complain to HR, but would they have my back? I’m not sure. I heard HR works only in the best interest of the president and the company. Employees are expendable. I’m not needed. They wouldn’t care if I left tomorrow, evidently through the payslips. But hey, they provide me with medical and dental insurance from an insurance company that blows, of which my therapist has refused to partner, so I have to pay her the full amount without any coverage.

And she’s just okay, nothing great. I see her once a week and don’t feel any better. Have you ever sat with a therapist and ran out of words to say before the fifty minutes were over? I go through that problem every time. And she just sits through my laptop and says close to nothing. And when she does, she regurgitates what she has already said. I feel hopeless. I’m waiting for a glimmer.

I awakened to another summer morning, not motivated to do much at all. The doctor still hasn’t called to set up an appointment. My hand is still going numb. But at least I’m taking another day off from work.

I slept in and pulled myself out of bed. It was a struggle to leave the apartment. Just imagine having to do my job.

I drove to the gym yesterday and signed up. The salesperson, I’ll refer to him as, showed me around the facility like I knew he would. I just wanted to be in and out, sign up and leave, but the salesperson had to do his job and walk me through every corner of the place as if one had never been seen. But I was patient, polite, inquisitive. I saw the fitness room, where they do Zumba classes, the fitness band room, the cycling room with a disco ball, the weight room, the personal trainer room, and lastly the cardio room, where I believe I would spend most of my time.

And then he led me back to his desk where I knew what was to come: not just me signing up for the gym but him trying to upsell me to a personal trainer, which I wasn’t interested in at all. He was eager to offer me a machine that would measure my body fat and levels of nutrition: too much information. I was better off ignorant. But he insisted that I try it out. There were three membership levels: the basic, in which I would use the equipment at that gym only for ten dollars a month, the fit, where I would get to use the equipment at multiple gyms and set up lessons with a personal trainer, and then the max, which would offer all of those things plus access to that nutrition/body fat machine, which I didn’t need. I chose the fit level because I just wanted to use the equipment at multiple locations. But he kept trying to upsell me to the max fit which I knew he would do. I saw it all coming.

“What are your fitness goals?” he asked.

I didn’t see that question coming. It made me uncomfortable. Did I really want to expose my insecurities to that kid? I gave him the vaguest answer. “I would like to get in shape.”

After the tenth time I said no to a personal trainer, he made that move where he called over his manager who so happened to be working at the next desk. A guy named Buddy. What does that tell you? He was big, and not with muscles, and covered in tattoos. One of the tattoos said I Want to Kill You on his forearm. And he spoke so fast that I couldn’t keep up. It was a tactic for me to say yes. Every time I said no, Buddy would offer to lessen the cost of the program. I would’ve had to pay $144 biweekly for four weeks with a personal trainer. I kept having to say no. Buddy kept going a fourth and fifth time. I knew what to expect. Right now I’m just not committed, I kept saying. And finally he surrendered, and I won.

I just can’t see myself with a personal trainer. I have enough commitments already. The reality is I don’t need someone telling me what I should or shouldn’t eat: no healhy fats, lean fats, supplements such as creatine, et cetera. Maybe someday, but I’m not ready to buy all that crap at the store. I left the gym, and maybe I’ll go today if I feel motivated.

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Fatigue

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