Serena Malcolm

As I sit on the top floor of my work building, back nestled against the safety door that leads to the roof, I try to ignore the pulse in my forehead, the result of a morning of pretending.

Pretending is hard.

It’s like turning one of those new-fangled cordless vacuum cleaners up to maximum and listening as it squeals into overdrive, chewing through dust, and skin fibres, and air, and crumbs, and hair, and tiny barely-there, itty-bitty, minding-their-own-business dustmites, until suddenly – just when you think it’s reached fever pitch and your head is starting to throb from the noise – silence. It’s dead. No warning, no pomp, no circumstance; it just won’t work anymore.

That’s what it’s like to pretend. Day in, day out. Look at me! I’m so happy! I’m so smiley! I’m sort of a bit funny (or at least I think I am, and please don’t tell me otherwise because my fragile ego cannot cope with any more ammo for my self-deprecation)! I’m super bubbly! Oooo so much banter! Oooo the frivolity! Oooo the frickin’ hilarity! I am just on, on, on. Whirring away, burning through my little battery pack until… boom. I’m done. I’m spent. I’m empty.

And that folks was exactly how today went. Or rather half of today, as it’s only 1.50pm. I got up from my desk feeling utterly shattered and walked out of my office building without a word. I then proceeded to wander aimlessly around the streets trying desperately to recharge my battery pack enough for the Second Act.

But when I got back, I stepped one foot into my office, into the laughter, into the chatter, into the suffocating heat, close quarters and pairs of judgy eyes… I stepped into the mere thought of yet more pretending and I realised in that instant that I just couldn’t do it.

Today is not the day.

So I turned on my heel and marched straight back out again. And before I knew it, without so much as a conscious thought, I had ascended six flights of stairs, and found myself standing in front of the roof door.

And for a minute I looked at the sign that says “NO ACCESS ALLOWED ONTO ROOF WITHOUT SAFETY HARNESS BEING WORN” and wanted to scream “FUCK YOU SIGN. FUCK YOU AND YOUR SNOOTY FONT AND ANGRY RED BACKGROUND. YOU CAN’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO. FUCK. YOU.”

And I looked out of the window, and I placed my trembling hand (rage? fear? lack of caffeine???) on the door handle, and… I crumpled ungracefully into a sloppy, frumpy, ugly, overweight pile of uselessness on the floor.

Then I pulled out my phone and started writing.

I could still do it, you know. I could still open that door…. But Google says you can still survive a fall from this height.

And what an inconvenience that would be.

Back to pretending then.

Better find a way to recharge. Stat.