Issue 06: Burnout
Frankie Dale | She/Her
DR. ASHLEY BLOOMFIELD, TIGER KING OF MY HEART
Initially, this column was solely about how stressed I was for my stupid essay or how the boy I liked didn’t talk to me. That was my idea of being burnt out at the time. Obviously, things are a little bit different now. The truth of the matter is, I’m a little bit sad—just as I’m sure you are. I need to emphasise that we can be sad and absolutely grateful at the same time.
Being scared, sad, overwhelmed with uncertainty, and ultimately burnt out at a time like this is completely warranted. In times like this, I think distraction is good—that’s why I watched Tiger King in one day. Although that man is a deeply flawed individual, he’s got some pipes on him.
Dramatic assholes like me are apparently always burnt out. Not just in our hectic, six week lul or in a global pandemic. There are days where I will wake up at 7am and eat oats with fancy bananas on it and pretend to do 3 minutes of ab workouts in my room. But there are also days where I will survive the whole day on my unpretentious diet that consists of refried beans and coke. I’ll stare at the wall naked in my wet towel considering if I should triple text that guy from the gig or not, then fall into a deep depression when he doesn’t reply, even though I knew he wouldn't.
My disturbed friend Rosa was telling me last week that she is dealing with her stress by developing a strange, yet completely warranted affinity for Dr. Ashley Bloomfield, the Director-General of Health. Much like New York's Governor, Andrew Cuomo, people seem to be getting a hard-on for the way these men are approaching COVID-19. From their calm and collected nature to their quiet confidence, Rosa is convinced that Ashley could be the one for her, and told me on Zoom this morning that when this is all over, he will be receiving a sultry DM from hers truly.
I know I'm properly burnt out when I have called Student Health 16 times in one week complaining of a new imaginary rash, infection, illness, bug, haemorrhage. The manifestation of my stress is so toxic that I can convince myself I have almost any disease. There I am, spread eagle over a mirror checking for the Herpes that I know I don’t have. Whilst still feeling a sense of relief when I get a text from Student Health saying “Hi Frankie, your results are negative”, which obviously calls for jugs with the mains, right? I still manage to come up with a new reason to be stressed.
We all deal with stress in different ways, and it has taken me a couple of weeks in isolation to come to terms with being kinder to yourself. I couldn’t care less if you’re not learning Latin or making ugly jewellery as your new side hustle. I’m currently trying to find the best light in my room to send my ex nudes. Tragic. But, who cares?
To be honest, this has been a difficult column to write. I am usually so inspired, excited to tell you about my distressing stories in hopes it will give you a twinkle of reprieve that even though you’re cringe, you’re not as cringe as me. I have to tell my stories to keep me sane. Take care of yourself. Who cares how you’re dealing with all of this—text your ex, take a shower, delve into the dark web. Be stressed in your own way because it is literally your body telling you something. Bake that banana cake, or don't. I love you, whoever you may be.