I confess: I’ve already fallen off the shower bus.
It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t be arsed; I just kinda forgot showers were a thing. Sure, in the middle of summer here in the sub-tropics, you’d think showers were THE thing, but apparently there’s nothing that can’t slip off the list, if enough other things come along. And I’m so fucking tired.
I mean, it did kinda bother me that I’m this tired, when ‘all’ I do is a bit of homeschool (irregularly; badly), a bit of housework (ditto), and look after Mum three or four times a week. Many women do far more. Heck, my sister keeps in close touch with her adult children, keeps house immaculately, does Mum’s shopping, cooking, medicals, and spends more time with her, as well as working. SHE showers.
Of course, I also have a hefty mental load. Even with our slapdash approach to schooling, someone is always in my ear, talking about cow snake morphs, rapping, or wanting to start a blog. That occupies bandwidth along with figuring out what’s for dinner every night and making sure we have ingredients, knowing what time their piano lesson is, remembering when school holidays are, and that the cat’s nearly out of food.
But that last piece did something that bugged me, that you often see in stories about invisible labour: ignoring (or ignorant of) the term’s origins, Hartley uses ‘emotional labour’ to describe the process of finding a cleaner.
Which, okay, it can be, especially if you’re ADHD, socially anxious, bone-sappingly tired, or ashamed of needing someone else to clean your house. She wasn’t talking about that, though. In fact she wasn’t talking at all about what I think of as emotional labour, which is the heavy lifting you do all day, every day, when someone, or everyone, in the house, has emotional over-excitability.
The flare of excitement today when we saw our first Red Triangle slug in the gutter where we’d parked; the urgency of looking it up. So big! So white! Such strange markings!
The huge tension when we tried (and failed) to rescue the slug, because left there the poor thing wasn’t safe.
The several reassurances that I’d back up to leave, rather than drive forward and ‘murder’ the slug.
The processing, afterwards. Curiosity, made-up explanatory stories, worry.
For everything, all the time.
So Nana’s diabetes diagnosis isn’t just about the extra mental load of figuring out her new diet; it’s also conversations about death and care and making the most of the time we have left, when I’d really rather hide in my room, processing alone.
Getting someone to do some math is not just about figuring out what they have to do and finding resources; it’s also about coaching them through the anxiety about doing it and, simultaneously, the anxiety about the consequences if they don’t—whilst keeping my own anxiety/frustration at bay.
Now apply that last para to teeth-brushing, housework, pet care, showers, projects, bedtime, going out, staying in, and any purchases anyone might wish to make.
A highly sensitive, highly anxious kid needing a tooth pulled? That took four months of talk, to get them through the door. FOUR MONTHS. And then two days’ processing afterwards.
Calmly identifying sources of conflict, coaching people to communicate their needs respectfully, translating offenses taken, accusations, or refusals for those whose words fail them – when it’s been TWELVE YEARS, dear gods why are we not there already?! – that’s emotional labour.
Keeping an eye out for the quicksand, negotiating around it, or being the tree someone grabs onto to haul themselves out – that’s emotional labour.
Holding myself firm in this moment, wilfully forgetting what should happen, or could happen based on what did happen last week, or, god forbid, what I WANT to happen, and above all, not losing my shit when it’s midnight and we’ve been at it for two hours already – THAT’S emotional labour.
That is what I do all day, and that is why I am so fucking tired.
(Rather wonderfully, when I messaged Dr Christiane Wells to ensure I understood emotional over-excitability, she replied, “Dabrowski wrote about fatigue as associated with having OE, and that’s something that’s not well-known – it’s something you see in his early work in Polish. Being ‘emotionally exhausted’ is something that happens in people with emotional OE.”)
So that’s it: a solid, bona-fide reason for this thumping, colossal, astronomical fatigue, because this work is not optional. It’s constant, it’s exhausting, and while I’m no master, I am – yeah. I’m gonna say it: I’m actually, pretty bloody good at it.
The nice thing is, if you’ve read this far and you have any inkling what I’m on about – any inkling whatsoever? Then you’re good at it, too.