Isolation paranoia - the psychological dangers of working at home - On My Mind - Column

Home Office Computing, Jan, 1994 by John Buskin

I AM KNOWN BY A THOUSAND NAMES-CONSULTANT, freelancer, outsource cadet, New Age techno-geek, Lamarr--actually, those are just five. But they all say the same thing--when all the other wage slaves are rushing out of the house to catch the 8:02, I'm pouring my second cup of Belgian Waffle Mist International Blend coffee and checking out who's on Regis & Kathie Lee. Although this may sound idyllic, you're probably unaware that watching daytime TV---even just long enough to ascertain that Montel's guests are "Love-Addicted Finnish-American Meter Maids" is proof you're legally insane in at least three states.

Many years ago, I worked in a normal office in a normal high-rise building in a normal faceless American downtown. I was a stressed-out, caffeine-slurping, shredded-nerve encrusted jangle of raw meat. But I was normal...compos mentis...one of the guys. I was sane.

Then I snared that first client. Ah, how I rejoiced. I didn't see the spiral-eyed golem hovering above the contract, salivating on my signature, and cackling away like an Amway rep. I was innocent. Naive. I went skipping out of my job and into the asylum.

Paradise Lost Running a business from home seemed so perfect at first--no commuting, no dress code, no office politics. No more sleepless nights of wee-hour power walks around the bed while intoning a sadistic litany of horrors that would be passionately administered to one or another imperious department supervisor. No more having to nag the numerically dyslexic payroll secretary, the nasty, gum-snapping benefits officer, or the flesh-peddling headhunter. No more creeping paranoia on discovering that the Haircut-That-Walks-Like-a-Man down the hall got new Naugahyde furniture for his office, while my own cubicle was still graced with naught but life-threateningly unstable folding chairs.

But the honeymoon was brief. Two hours, 36 minutes, and 14 seconds into my first day at home--as I was happily organizing the task before me and glimpsing, in my mind's eye, a vision of my final invoice--the germ of a delusional, psychotic idea began gestating in my brain stem, replicating itself like a mutant monster in a Japanese sci-fi classic.

Will Anyone Ever Pay Me for Anything

Ever Again? I got hold of myself, tore downstairs, and sucked up a couple mouthfuls of Taster's Choice granules mixed with cold water. "I couldn't do that at any office," I told myself. "I'd have to wait for the water to boil while making bright chitchat with all those back-stabbing, salaried dingoes probing for any chance to rip one another's flesh off! But what if my client's company is reorganizing...or merging...or pouring laundered funds into a politically incorrect cause like the Fry Everything in Pig Lard lobby? How will I hear about that if I'm stuck here at home? How will I jockey for position? I better call someone at work I can trust. I vroomed back up to phone and compute.

"Hello, Barry?"

"Hey, Mr. Independent. Out in the yard with the portaphone?"

"No, just toiling away. When you're on your own, if you don't do it yourself, it doesn't get done! [I feverishly pounded the keyboard with my elbows.] What's new at Glomtech?"

"Same old story, Mr. Work-for-Yourself. But I gotta go. Big meeting about your contract with Bill Zinzer."

"Zinzer? My contract? "I was done for. Outta there. History. I vaguely remember recently scanning the phrase, "We reserve the right to void this contract on a whim."

"Yeah. He said your work so far has been just super."

YES! As I hung up, my whole body relaxed into the yoga asana of the quivering puddle. "So," I said aloud to myself, "Zinzer thinks my work is super!" Then suddenly my whole body went as rigid as a drive shaft. "What if they fire Zinzer? AAAAAHHH!"

Mood Swings And so it went. Anxiety to serenity to gut-wrenching panic. My moods pinballed. Sometimes there was the abject desolation of pervasive insecurity. "So what if I have a contract," I thought. "These days corporations the size of the Ottoman Empire are dropping like flies."

I became an expert at Corporate Kremlinology. "I haven't heard a peep in the week since I modemed that last report," I thought. "That must mean there were no problems with it. But it could mean they're formulating a response memo. But it also could mean that they haven't read it yet. It could even mean they think it's so bad, they're reading passages aloud to each other in Eastern European accents in the conference room and making cow noises. Or it could mean that I accidentally modemed it to the post office?'

Other times I danced around the house in an arm-waving Latin gala, celebrating as only someone can when he thinks he's beaten the system. Up and down I went, day in and day out. I learned very quickly, however, that I had become confused about when day in or day out was. There was no punching a time clock, no wrapping things up for the week. The computer monitor was always there, beckoning. Nights, weekends, vacations, work never went away. A Saturday was no different from a Wednesday. I had work to do. Sure, there are lots of hardworking drones who drag themselves into their offices on weekends, but they all eventually get to go home. I couldn't go home--I was home.