Veteran Connor-watchers will have known something was wrong. In the past 24 hours, I’ve tweeted about how much I miss Glee and Facebooked about how much I miss 2012 One Direction. Those are my safe spaces. Why would Connor be sitting at home alone being broodily reminiscent and retreating into a Glee-based funk?
The weightloss company contacted me. I didn’t clear their credit checks. They’re not going to let me get the surgery on a payment plan. I don’t know what to do.
It’s the kind of news that makes you angry at yourself. It’s not because I have big debts. All my big debts are in Ireland. It’s because I simply don’t earn enough.
In the last two weeks, I’ve been at work until after 10:00 pm twice, and after 9:00 another four times. One day last week I arrived at 7:30 am and left at 9:45 pm. I’m working myself to death and I don’t know why. Because I can’t earn enough to get a £10,000 loan, no matter how many hours I spend there.
I love my job and I love the people I work with. I really really do. People have been so nice to me and I’ve made genuine friendships. I’m really surprised at myself for loving the job. I didn’t expect to, but it’s nice to have my own department and I’m given freedom to do more or less what I like and I’ve pushed and pushed and made the department as big as I can and brought in as many students as I can and I’ve half-killed myself in the process. My life is my job these days. And after leaving the office at 10:00, it’s 11:00 by the time I get home and face into my proofreading work, taking my laptop to bed with me.
And yes, I have a nice life because I’m earning a stable salary again. I can afford a lovely flat and I have built up quite a collection of new shirts and ties and I treat myself to new books and to theatre tickets. But I can’t help feeling I’ve done everything wrong.
I put my work before everything. I worked last Saturday. I’m working two of the next three Saturdays. I’m not working next Saturday but I am at a work conference. I had a ticket to see Fun Home in its last week on the West End on Thursday and I didn’t go because I didn’t want to leave work until I’d cleared my inbox at 9:45. I didn’t go to a colleague’s leaving party last week because I worked that day from 8:00 am to 9:30 pm and I felt like throwing up from tiredness and I had to go home and mark assignments before coming into work again the next day, a Saturday.
And I do it all so I get my £1800 into my bank account every month. And yes, I’m proud of what I’ve built at work. But who the hell have I built it for? In my funk today, I decided to find out who I was working for. My school is owned by a larger company, which is owned by an investment group, which is owned by a larger investment group which in turn is owned by four German billionaire siblings. The same investment group has shares in Pret-a-Manger and 7Up and Max Factor and Calvin Klein. That’s who I’ve been working for and so I’m selling my soul not getting the lifestyle I want in return. Capitalism, kids, is a massive con job.
I feel like such an idiot.
I don’t know who I’ve been working myself like that for. And I haven’t been doing the things I came to London to do. I came to London to write and create but I’ve even been too tired for the last while to make my One Direction videos, let alone work on any more books. I came to London to have an actual sex life and a love life and yet I haven’t been with a man for months. I came to London to go to West End shows and yet I’m skipping them to answer work emails. I’ve got everything wrong.
And I was so hopeful that I was going to get the chance to re-write the script of my life. I was going to get the surgery and be thin and find a boy who wants to hold hands with me instead of a fat fetishist who wants to cum on my hairy moobs and I was going to be able to be a new Connor and end this eternal cycle of diets and failure forever and I was going to be able to see my penis before I was forty.
I don’t know what happens next. I think I need to seriously start looking for a job where I’ll earn more. The best bet might be academia. Do I dust off my PhD and see if I can get an article or two out of it and start the life of endless homework that academia involves? I don’t know.
I’ll also see how long the wait will be for the surgery on the NHS – apparently it’s two to three years. I’ll have to lose weight in the meantime. Since I decided to get the surgery six weeks ago, I’ve gained a stone and a half. I’m over 28 stone again for the first time since before the Camino and manoeuvring myself in and out of bed and in and out of the shower and in and out of my socks is harder than it’s ever been before. So I have to do something.
I have three weeks off work in October that I was going to use for the surgery. I can’t afford to go abroad on a holiday. Maybe I’ll try getting my writing started again. Maybe I’ll try getting into drag again. Maybe I’ll find a nice fat fetishist and insist on cuddles and well as whatever weird eating thing/squashing thing/wobbling thing he wants me to do.
I’ll rise again, but right now, I’m in a funk.