As feared

The end of my first week back to work has ended in tears.

george is due tomorrow and my hormones are all out of whack.

And this week I started drinking again to the point of getting drunk due to work stress.

I ran out of my anti-anxiety medicine last Sunday, so I’ve been taking my muscle relaxers and a bit of wine to cope. But last night I joined friends at the tiki bar and got smashed on two drinks (well the 2nd drink is more like five-in-one and is appropriately called The Zombie).

Today my shoulders started to seize up and my lower back began to ache.
Then I got joint pain in my shoulders and wrists and knees.

Then without warning, a panic attack came on at work where suddenly I felt as if I was being smothered. I gasped for air and my heart raced and panicked. I maintained very well on the exterior but inwardly the panic grew. Why was this happening at work? Why right now? I grabbed the bottle of Ensure I’d had with my lunch and scanned the ingredients for anything speedy or caffinated. I saw nothing. But shit, the next call will come in at any second – I work in a phone queue, and then what? What if I still can’t compose myself by the time the call comes in?

I was waivery-voiced but maintained, and by the end of that next call, I was composed again.

Depression was starting to seep in, and hit full blast when I had a bunch of calls at the end of the day that added to my work load and made me stay a half an hour overtime. I’ve done that four times out of five this week so far. That’s typical, too.

And also this week, the managers expressed a need for volunteers for the weekend because they’re short staffed. I felt pressed and obliged. I will be working Saturday. I need the money anyway and I’m off on Monday for dead ex-president’s day, a day off I can never understand being granted to people. But then, I’m wholly unpatriotic to begin with, so of course I don’t understand.

The idea of working six days straight on my first week back to work when my period is due on that sixth day of work however caught up with me today and I became depressed. I barely make it through a five-day work week as it is. Now I know that six is just too much and sets me over the edge.

My depression worsened when, at the end of the work day and talking to my boyfriend, I realised that I’d not packed any club clothes or makeup. But yet I’d agreed to meet up at a friend’s house so we could all carpool to the club tonight. A bandmate of my boyfriend is playing tonight in a side-project band.
My shallow side kicked in hard. “I can’t show up at the club dressed in work clothes”, I whined.

So I came straight home from work. But in that hour and a half commute home, the depression sank me even lower.

On February 14th, it took me TWO and a half hours to get home because of traffic. I thought I’d take a short cut to avoid the massive backup. I studied a map and off I went. And went. And went. And missed my turnoff. And got turned around and lost.
I should have been sobbing from that experience, but I went numb. I stared ahead as I drove. Silent. Numb.

I got home and whined for sushi and my man and I walked to the local sushi joint. But I forgot my special wheat free soy sauce. So I had to walk back home and get it.

Even the sushi sucked.

And here I am, two days later, sore eyes from sobbing right after my boyfriend left the house to go off to the club, and then after that off to a hotel for the weekend for a game convention. I’m normally not sobby like this. He goes off to see his friends for game every Sunday, and has band practice twice a week, and goes to game conventions twice a year for an entire weekend.

But today I am all weepy and emotional because of several factors. It was my first week back to work after surgery. I am PMSing already. I hate the commute and knew I would likely have a meltdown based on that alone Real Soon Now, anyway. Hell, my first month on the job, I cried every week because of the friggin’ commute and the Big Brother crap imposed on us at work.

I feel I have no choice. I keep saying that. People must be paid back. I have to get out of debt. I have a credit card and two department store cards to pay off again. I have two loans to pay.

And then I listen to a story on National Public Radio (NPR) about this military couple. The wife got her legs blown off in Iraq. Her husband helps take care of her now but after 19 years in the national guard and not seeing active duty, suddenly they’re calling him up for Iraq. And he’s going. WTF. This country is so screwed up.

And I sit here sobbing because I can’t go to a club because I have to be up at 5:30am to get ready for work tomorrow. What a weak piece of shit.
Hormonal whack aside. I don’t care. I usually listen to other peoples’ tales of woe to strengthen and embolden me to go on. But today, that didn’t work. I’m sore. I’m achey. I’m whiney. I’m sad. I’m depressed. I’m ready to quit.

I know I will carry on. I always do. But right at this moment, everything’s just too much for me to handle. “If I can just get through tomorrow.” I say that every fecking workday of the week. That’s how close I always am to meltdown. That close.

If I can just get through tomorrow, I will have two days off of work to do nothing but lay around for most of the day.

I already miss the week I had just laying on the couch with the laptop, looking out the living room window at the hummingbird that often visits the flowers outside the window. I miss that so much. I got to work on my family genealogy that week, something I’ve not been able to do at a stretch like that for two years.
That’s all I want all of the time – the week I just had off – minus the surgery and recovery part, of course.

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