I make an effort not to bitch and complain excessively here. Snark and mockery? Sure. But self-indulgent whining? Not terribly productive or interesting. But we’ll make an exception today because this is my blog and I’ll cry if I want to.
This week has been oddly difficult for me and after tracing back where it’s all coming from it seems to come down to this: my routine has been thrown off. Ed has been gone this week for work, taking my car with him as well as my ability to sleep since a certain dog who shall remain Molly likes to wake me at random intervals when he’s gone. And apparently it’s a quick leap to “Everything is fucked” when my little systems start to break down. And then I feel like a useless idiot incapable of rolling with basic life stuff, which feeds into a delightful cycle of feeling crappy, being paralyzed by self-doubt and loathing, and then feeling even worse about uncompleted tasks or the inability to make decisions.
It’s become obvious to me in the last year that control and routine keep me sane. To be clear: I don’t have to touch a doorknob eight times before I leave the house or necessarily care what anyone else is doing. I’m not that far gone. Being able to organize my day and make time for myself means I’m better-equipped to be there for others. But lately something as simple as a change in my running routine (Oh yeah: I’m running again. It’s actually helping to keep the crazy in check, if you can believe that.) or a spontaneous dinner invitation which requires me to reorganize my mental to do list sets off a sequence of negativity in my brain that I can’t seem to fully quiet. “You’re a bad friend for not making plans.” “You’re a bad wife for not keeping the house spotless.” “You’re a bad daughter for not checking in with and visiting your family.” Normally diving in and tackling whatever is hanging over my head – or even just completing something simple to give that sense of accomplishment that then propels me forward to take on the big stuff – helps pull me out of the funk, but anything other than sitting under the covers binge-watching episodes of Brooklyn Nine-Nine sounds too overwhelming.
Adding to the general crankiness: every person I work with has been recently/is currently incredibly ill and yet still coming in to work while fully contagious THEN taking a few days off to rest. Working in what sounds like a tuberculosis ward is not exactly pleasant, and then you add in the extra work I’m taking on to compensate for their absences (not to mention client complaints since I am expected to cover for at least three other people at a time, which means one person doing the work of four = shit’s not happening as fast as they’d like) and it’s the routine/control issues with a side order of resentment and frustration. Plus, no one laughed my Doc Holliday joke (too soon?) and that’s just disappointing.
There’s a lot of positive change and transition in our not-too-distant future, but it’s requiring a lot of focus, money, and time. The list of things to do seems daunting and Sisyphean in nature, which isn’t helping my little freakout. Some of it’s out of our hands, which is scary and unsettling (see aforementioned desire for control). Logically I know it will all work out; as with almost anything worthwhile it will require some patience and a can-do attitude. But emotionally? To say that I’m feeling adrift would be accurate.
And of course I know this will pass. Ed will be home soon and things will recalibrate. At the very least, I’ll get some sleep and if there’s any cliche that has proven to be true it’s that everything looks better after a good rest. At least, that’s what I’m banking on.