As far as sisters go, Nickie is pretty awesome. She lives in Arizona with her husband and my nephew. Her husband used to race jet skis professionally, and years ago, they started a watercraft rental company, which is obviously good for their health, because whenever I call Nickie, she first answers the phone all professional-like, and then when she realizes it's me, she usually lets out a college-girl-sounding yelp in jubilation. She always seems just so okay. Only a person who is genuinely satisfied with life can sound like that. Nickie also has one of the best laughs of all time.
So I filled Nickie in on my plans to hike the PCT next spring (more on that in another blog post, maybe), and why, subsequently, I don't care about quitting my job to do so. Which led to me thinking more about why I don't care about quitting my job, and then, thinking about how often I feel like that, and how my loathing has reached dangerous capacity for not giving a shit, not to mention my mental and emotional health suffering to the point of illness and actual, physical pain.
Nickie had to get off the phone to run some errands, so, on my way to a meeting with my supervisor, I had nothing but a few downtown city miles to drive in contemplation of the growing anxiety and panic that was welling within me. By the time I walked into the office and greeted one of my good friends (the one who just got a new awesome job), the shit storm hit full-force and I found myself crying while she hugged me and petted my head.
It didn't get better. In fact, while I prepared a document for my meeting, I felt the distinct symptoms of a mini panic attack. I guess I don't actually know what a panic attack looks or feels like, but if heart palpitations and a feeling of gloom closing in, wrapping you in a dark cloak and squeezing your throat until you feel like you're going to vanish into thin air are signs that something is wrong, then I guess I was feeling pretty cruddy.
I won't burden or bore you all with the details of visions and realizations that passed on the projector screen of the undersides of my eyelids, but suffice it to say I recognized that going to my morning meeting with my supervisor was not an option. I'm not really big on pain, but I would have probably sacrificed a small chunk of skin if it would have paid my way through not having to have that meeting. At one point, even preparing to go report that I would need to go home for the rest of the day rendered me paralyzed in an office chair, shaking and struggling to breath.
At this point, I think it's fair to state that unless you've ever been in a position like mine and my cohorts, this will all seem like whiny bullshit. Everyone has a story about shitty working conditions. Certainly, 8-year-olds in Indonesia have it worse. But bear with me when I say that my job is like being in a bad relationship: things get better here and there, there is a renewed feeling of hope and the belief that this thing is sustainable, but when all is said and done, you dread coming home, can't tell anyone about the abuse because no one will understand or you feel like you'll be laughed at, and you ultimately feel stuck and like no one else will love you, anyway. Comfort presides, and fear of the unknown becomes your only motivation to stay.
Since that is no way to live life, I made the decision to leave work early today, and on the drive home thought about all kinds of things I can't remember, because THAT'S HOW FUCKING STRESSED-OUT MY JOB MAKES ME. Along with my memory issues, trouble focusing, sleeping, thinking, driving, returning phone calls, losing track of important things like when my bills are due and a weirdly waning appetite, most nights after work I sit in a fog at my computer, unable to function or remember that I told myself I'd clean my bathroom, then suddenly realize that it's midnight and time to go to bed so I can wake up and do it all again the next day.
I didn't used to be like this. I didn't used to be like a lot of things. I was making an English muffin a bit ago and thought of a list full of things that have changed about me in the last three years:
Reading, and also writing:
I used to do both of these things all the time. I didn't even think about it at the time, but I look back and realize now that before I started doing my current job, as soon one book was finished, I was four chapters into the next. I also journaled and blogged and shared beautiful little short stories with dear friends. These days I just write work documents that are so full of shit they have piled themselves high against the walls of my mental fortitude.
Pain?
So, like, I'm a healthy person. I do yoga, I watch what I eat. (I especially keep an eye on my food when I am shoving a delicious bacon cheeseburger in my mouth. Can't let those things outta your sight, lest they should grow legs from all the remnant hormones pumped into USA beef.) I have even sought help from a guy who practices visceral manipulation, which found me topless and having my glued-together muscle fibers being ripped apart in a quiet chiropractor's office a few weeks ago. (A story for another time, maybe.)
I am question-marking this one, though, because I notice that the ever-present pain I feel at the base of my skull and in my shoulders and upper back isn't usually present on the weekends, or when I've been on vacation for a few days. But strangely, as soon as I pull out my day planner to check my Monday meetings, it feels like I have a Scottish Highland ox sitting on my shoulders.
Being stressy/anxious:
I have a genetic inclination toward whatever chemicals or chemical deficiencies trigger anxiety/stress/depression. Luckily, I've never been medicated for any of it. I've thought about it, though! Even today, I sat at my work computer (before I left, mid-breakdown), and said, "I feel like I need a horse tranquilizer." But I didn't used to be like this! Anxiety is normal and productive and good for helping people avoid things like walking in front of trains, obviously, because if people weren't anxious about that, the allure of fast-moving objects would have probably wiped out 1/3 of urbanized society.
However. To realize that my anxiety has bubbled over like a sick cauldron into other, non-stressy areas of my life is a shame. Sometimes I freak out over which toilet paper to buy and have to be cajoled into participating in really normal human activities -- like eating and showering -- because sometimes I feel so anxious that getting out of bed (this is on the weekends, people, just so you don't stage an intervention at my house next Tuesday morning) feels as dangerous as walking through a thick pane of glass.
Cleaning:
Which leads us to the fact that I have noticed surmounting piles of crap and dust and mail all over my house, in unison with the dwindling desire to do anything about it. I've never been a neat freak, but the fact that cleaning sometimes feels as impossible as beating off the entire Spartan army is, I think, not quite reasonable.
Maintaining healthy peer relationships:
I like people. (I even called my sister this morning! See!) And I love my friends. I seriously have some of the bombest friends ever. But I hardly see my friends unless they A) work with me, or B) go to the same yoga studio. Which, I will point out, is where I met those particular friends, and so it makes sense that I would see them in those places. I also forget birthdays or to return phone calls from my mom or sisters, and I thank some serious Jeebus for Facebook, otherwise it would be the same way with my nephews. To put it simply: this sucks of me. But I really don't know how to tell my friends and/or family how much my job takes it out of me, and that I really, truly do love them.
Not to mention that my romantic relationships have often found me crying and manic over really stupid shit because, for example, I may have had a really taxing work week, riddled with passive-aggressive micromanagement and deadlines I cannot possibly keep up with and still maintain any normalcy.
As a result, this will be me someday, except
without the exceptional choice in music in the background.
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