1,105 words

Kibble and Mike sat silently opposite each other at a table in the same café where Kibble had met Ziggy during his last social interaction before his untimely demise. They avoided eye contact, trying to focus on anything other then each other. Kibble had, of late, relinquished her long-time adherence to punk hair, provocative attire and multiple body beautification piercings. She had tired of her radical, rebellious, alternative identity and lifestyle and, with considerable anger directed inwards towards herself for doing so, had decided to adopt a more mainstream persona. Dimples remained where studs and clasps had been removed. She was no longer enduring frequent and regular dying pink of a Mohican hair style and had started to dress more conservatively. However, all this belied her persisting self-identity doubts and all the same negativity, self-deprecation and sometimes even self-loathing. But she saw it as a distinct improvement that she could maintain a reasonably positive sense of self without having to display it to others through such explicit and stark means.

Mike was dressed as ever in his usual mundane casual smart clothing. Kibble found this comfortingly familiar and reassuring. Anybody who has a set of ties specifically for weekends, and evenings at home, deserves respect.

Items on the table they were seated at were as expected of a Greasy Spoon establishment with an unimpressive hygiene rating. There was the ketchup dispenser in the form of a plastic, oversized, beefsteak tomato. The glass, transparent, salt container was half packed with dry rice which had done nothing to avoid clogging of the lid’s perforations. The pepper pot, while lacking rice, had experienced the same ending. Some small and cheap looking serviettes were held within a stainless-steel clasp on a stand, and the table surface had a sheen suggestive of repeated casual and ineffective efforts to wipe away grease, rather than resulting from proper detergent cleaning. Unchallenging and unmemorable canned music emanated from a modest, dusty, ageing speaker high up on a wall, teetering precariously on a poorly installed bracket, with cables left hanging down to floor level and along to the café’s counter.

Kibble began to cry. It had all started to feel too much. First the breakup with Veronica, followed by the short-lived dalliance with Sheila, and now the loss of Ziggy. Any pretence of self-resilience, and strong psychological defences against the crap that life throws at one, had gone long ago.

Mike held out his hand across the table in a gesture of sympathy and friendship. Kibble grasped it and squeezed it tightly, allowing more tears to trickle down her face. She had come across the word burnout and had googled it. She had identified a popular definition; “an extended period of stress that feels it cannot be ameliorated.” The definition had progressed to describe physical, emotional, and mental exhaustion with decreased motivation, lowered performance and negative attitudes towards oneself and others. Yes, this seemed to tick all the boxes. However, in Kibble’s wanderings through second hand bookstores she had found an old tatty text on community integration for people with severe disabilities. A chapter in the book, written by an outspoken and passionate advocate for such services was entitled Culturing Commitment. Within it, the author outlined his view that burnout is not an inevitable consequence of prolonged overwork and/or unbearable emotional angst. His thesis was that burnout results from becoming detached from the conviction and awareness that what you do is of undeniable and significant positive consequence. Many people overwork and experience mental stress but that should not be seen as a badge of honour, a passport to retreat to the margins of life and work, or a reason to descend into emotional and physical inertia. What Kibble gleaned from this was that her life needed active engagement and greater meaning instead of passive drifting.

Although she rarely did so, she had a few times sought out Uncle Mike even if only to receive his sympathies and emotional support.

“You need more meaning to your life” commented Mike, seeming to read Kibble’s mind and what she was pondering on.

“Not very good at that sort of thing” mumbled Kibble by way of reply.

“Something to occupy yourself, stretch yourself psychologically, something that helps others” continued Mike.

Various options flashed through Kibble’s mind, in no particular order. With her new persona and outward appearance, she could be a personal secretary to a high-flying international businessperson, or a television breakfast show presenter. Perhaps an actress, or even a movie star. Ah, such fantasies. She recalled the statement that “goals should be challenging to fulfil but should be attainable.” Time to keep feet firmly on the ground. At least these ideas gave her starting points.

“Thanks so much uncle” she said to Mike, leaning over the table and giving him a half hug and a kiss, much to Mike’s surprise and embarrassment, even though nobody was watching. Then Kibble stood up straight, adjusted and smoothed out her clothing, put on her newly acquired posh anorak, swung her long-handled handbag over her head and shoulder, and headed determinedly out of the café. Mike was left alone to finish his mug of tea, and to ponder his own empty life.

Kibble headed down the street and to her surprise realised that she was smiling. Something to occupy herself. Something therapeutic. Something creative. Something she could help others with. She passed by the squat she had inhabited with her alternative friends, breathed a sigh that she was no longer living there with them, and moved on towards the modest yet cosy third floor studio apartment she now rented, courtesy of financial support from Uncle Mike.

Mike had always had a soft spot for Kibble, reflecting often with sadness over what she had had to endure as part of the reconstituted family comprising her mother (Mike’s sister), and her mother’s new partner, Kibble’s stepfather. Mike endured longstanding guilt at having failed to intervene over the traumas Kibble had too regularly and frequently experienced there. However, these things are easier said than done. Mike had concluded that the best he could do was to be there for Kibble should she ever need somebody to talk to and confide in. To be fair, she rarely took up this offer, so it was quite something that she had on this occasion. Mike finished his tea, put on his overcoat, out of habit left a modest tip on the table, exited the café, and headed back to his home, with the usual self-defeating promise to himself that this time he would definitely start sorting out the piles of clothing and other paraphernalia swamping his apartment.