So an entire month without a day off of any kind has broken me. I have nothing of interest or even mild interest to say. To anyone.
I thought that I was tough, but I really, really hate this. I always forget that being tired makes me sort of fall apart. I cannot deal with sleep deprivation. I feel like other people sleep less on a regular basis and still function normally, but I cannot (and never have been able) to do this.
I start to be anxious about nothing (prepackaged with your anxiety about nothing also comes the feeling that your skin is trying crawl off your body, surges of adrenaline that prepare you for fighting badgers with your bare hands but there are no badgers, sleeplessness, headache, raggedy nails, and a special bonus inability to bear the thought of anything even thinking about touching you! Especially awesome for married people who would like to stay married and NOT contract chlamydia from some skank your husband turns to in desperation!) So I basically sit around like Jello, quivering with excess nervous energy but too exhausted to actually harness and use that nervous energy for any interesting or useful purpose.
I start dreaming about things that I'm not dealing with, but rather am shoving down into a little ball somewhere in the pit of my brain, where I can pretend the issue doesn't exist and doesn't bother me at all. As all well adjusted, mentally well, normal people do, of course. This time around it is dreams about my dad. I should probably write a real post about him someday, and why he is A Thing I Probably Should Deal With, But I'd Really Rather Not Because Look! A 4-Hour Special About the Reproductive Habits of Earthworms is On! Let's Do That Instead. Frankly, I haven't been able to come up with a way to discuss my daddy issues without sounding either whiny (okay, I know this post is also whiny, but...its different. Or something), blame-y, or some other variant of dwarf that didn't make the final cut of Snow White.
I haven't been reading anything more challenging than the occasional trashy romance novel or trashy mystery novel or basically anything that requires me to actual think about the words and what they might mean.
I went to visit one friend and her premature baby in the hospital, but haven't been able to drag my ass to visit my other friend and HER premature baby in the hospital. Yes, 2 of my friends had premature babies approximately 6 days apart. And that makes me feel like a bad friend. I also feel like a bad wife, a bad employee, a bad daughter, and a bad person in general because all of this? Is so incredibly selfish I can barely stand myself. I mean, I'm not being marched to the gas chamber. No one is in any imminent danger. I'm just tired and I have nothing to say.
Is this post irony? It might be irony. It's not "10,000 spoons when all you need is a knife" or anything...but it might be ironic?