Tag: stress

Getting shit done at 4AM

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I’ve always had insomnia and extreme anxiety. We know that. I’ve had a sleep study done. I live in a perpetual state of “my sister will come in and start hitting me for leaving the TV on QVC again at any moment.” They were like you just have “spontaneous arousal” plus periodic limb movement disorder. So basically after every REM cycle, I come back up to near wake — which means pretty much ANYTHING is gonna pop me to fully awake. So I don’t get those ever deepening REM cycles. And yeah, I’m crazy.

So when perimenopause causes insomnia and anxiety — what happens when you already have those? WHAT HAPPENS?

You know what happens? You just start freaking the fuck out and you never sleep. I’m on staycation supposed to be relaxing but I can’t sleep. This is me doing laundry at 4am. I woke up to pee and was like fuck it, I’m not going to fall asleep for a few hours. I should do laundry.

That’s my staycation. I don’t have to freak out about my sleep schedule and husband is gone so I’m not disturbing anyone. Great time for this. I haven’t put up my laundry in at least over a month. Well over. But there’s always something I’d rather do. But hey, 4am, let’s do it.

Look! All my Duluth camisoles are clean!

Yes, I do have one in every color they’ve put out since I discovered them. I don’t know why three of those colors are shades of purple, but whatever. These are camisoles with built in bras. NOT a shelf bra. I don’t even know what the fuck a shelf bra is for. Like that only holds the shirt to your boobs. There’s no support. There’s no nipple coverage. It just holds the shirt in place. So you still gotta wear a bra.

These have a sewn in bra. Like pads — not removable pads either, they’re fully sewn in there. Do you know what that MEANS? It means I can wear the coolest-yet-still-coverage shirt with not bra. I can answer the door. I can go to the mailbox. I can have people in my house — in my camisole. No nipples showing. Tattoo on full display. Adjustable straps. I’m just comfortable. I LIVE IN THESE. Yall washing clothes when you run out of underwear, these are my washing cue.

Duluth. I fucking love Duluth. The clothes are just good quality shit made to fit a normal sized person who actually moves around. Nothing is stylish — it’s all functional core pieces. And that shit’s gonna LAST. Everything has a one year guarantee. Bring it back for any reason and they’ll replace or refund. Who else does that with clothes? Who else it gonna take back you 9 month old tshirt? I tell you who, Duluth.

I even got my husband on this brand. I bought him some of the bucknaked underwear and their classic 5-pocket pants. He liked the pants so much he got me to get them in another color. MY HUSBAND. So I went and got him some jeans on Wednesday. I had to return some adorable shorts I bought online that were too small for my thighs (sad times). So I was like, I’ll return these and get husband some good jeans. Cool. So I didn’t even bother looking, I just asked the guy whats the closest jeans you have to these pants. And that’s what I bought. Home free right? No. It’s Duluth.

So I’m walking out and I see this little dress thing on clearance. It had caught my eye the other day but was still too expensive, even on clearance. But now clearance was an additional 20% off in store. So I glance at the again. Built in bra — nice nice. Oh wait, holy FUCK ME, are those shorts?

So I grab some to try on. I never would wear something like this — but my friend, this dress is everything. All you need is panties. Very supportive bra built in. Shorts with pockets, check. Extra pockets, check. Open back shows my tattoo off, check.

Well, fuck. I’m wearing this to the Trash Pandas next week. I think it’s made for hiking and shit but you could do anything in this. It’s basically a leotard/bodysuit that looks like a casual dress. And I thought it would be fun because I don’t own anything even close to this. I’m gonna pick husband up from the airport in it!

Oh, and while I’m doing laundry over here… Here’s my top favorite Tshirts at the moment.

We got a pop culture reference, a cat (with a Vneck – love a Vneck), and three shirts referencing the word fuck. One with a muppet. I love Chef.

So yeah… “Cursing Cats and Curiosities” — NAILED THE NAME.

Oh and I called my psychiatrist and was like “yeah no, I’m no longer a functioning crazy person.” I’m requiring a nap EVERY DAMN DAY. Panic attacks every day. Perimenopause is like MY DEATH SPIRAL.

So he gave me MORE valium. I swear to god, my only super power is my inability to sleep. Once I told a pharmacist friend all the shit I take and she was like “I’d be passed out.” No, that’s the level of anxiety we are medically suppressing here. One day we’re all gonna get gassed and kidnapped and I’m gonna wake up and save us all cause aint nobody taking my ass down. Kidnapper farts and I’m awake. Oh you thought I was asleep? ME? HA! I heard everything you said. Now which reality is this — is this the one where I still have one class to take to finish my degree before everyone finds out I’m a sham (because they let me fake graduate with everyone, as long as I finish that one class)? Or the one where we are perpetually packing up to go home from the Florida trip because my sister brought an insane amount of shit that needs to be jammed in the car and she’s drunk off her ass pissing herself in the closet so I have to do it all? WHERE IS MY CAT, MOTHERFUCKER?

I’m gonna categorize this under “Health > Ageing – Not Gracefully.” I have a valium to go take.

DID MY HUSBAND FORGET TO CALL ME AGAIN?

WHAT IS THIS? A school for ANTS?

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Look at this hat, yall. I’m looking for a new pool baseball cap. So I searched for “Baseball hat ponytail.” Amazons fucked up algorithm showed me a “men’s baseball cap” first (Sponsored ad, of course) and this abomination:

My scalps gonna burn right through that damn thing. AND no ponytail elastic — FAIL.

OK WAIT — before we move on — what the actual fuck is this? This one doesn’t protect your scalp or block the sun from your eyes. Why does this abomination exist?

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Anyway, new topic. Also, I do understand the irony in this next situation.

So did you read my last post about how life saving and amazing my new BedJet is? Well, you just got the summery. So it blows air into a cloud sheet to keep you cool under the covers. Awesome. Until…

Yeah. Four times now, I’ve woken up a sweaty mess because Louie is blocking the air vent. Is Louie doing this to be near me? Fuck no he’s not. Louie isn’t a mushy lover. He has NEVER slept on my side of the bed (on occasion when we sleep late and he’s waiting for me to get up and feed him, he’ll be on the bed — on Anthony’s foot corner). And he’s not sleeping with me — hes RIGHT on the air output.

So nearest I can figure, It’s the vibrations or noise? The only place I feel anything from the BedJet is right there at the outlet — you feel the air blowing inside the sheet and therefor against your feet so it’s kind of a waveform/vibration feeling.

If he was on either SIDE of the airjet, it wouldn’t be a problem. However, hes completely blocking any air from dispersing into the sheet. This is a problem yall.

Yeah I get it hahaha, that’s so funny.

NO IT’S NOT. I’m SWEATING. I’m hot. Today, after I took this picture, I had to get out of my PJs and put on new underwear because I was so sweaty. I had a good thing and now I don’t. How do I fix this?

I just moved the nozzle to the side of the bed in hopes that maybe that will help? I don’t think it will, but we’re gonna find out. Is there a fabric that he would find very uncomfortable? Keep in mind that covering the counters in parchment paper had zero affect on him. Like would he do it on a tarp? Is there an very offensive pointy side of the velcro fabric?

And yes, I get the irony. For over a year, I’d wish and wish that he’d want to sleep in bed with me. Now it’s NOT COOL. I didn’t even intend that pun there.

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Lastly, an update: Our floor is getting fixed! They’re coming to pack up our entire first floor including kitchen appliances and move it all into the garage. They’ll be here Wednesday at 8:30am. So this is great!

And terrifying. Cause this week they’ll move stuff and fix all the dry wall. Then they wont start on the floor until like next week. I think next Wednesday? Or was it the NEW floor is going in Wednesday? I don’t know. But multiple week thing. Gotta move all our shit. Living upstairs and out of the garage. For lunch and breakfast, I gotta go in the garage where my fridge is and pass workers. I’m not looking forward to this.

Also, the mold remediation with the loud fans did something to Louie. It fucked him up. He’s all jumpy and scared of noises now. So we gotta get rid of him before any of this goes down. We can’t traumatize the cat again. So K is gonna take him in Tuesday night. But it’s gonna be MORE THAN A WEEK. And I already feel so bad leaving him! And also, like how often do I visit? Like I’m lazy and I don’t wanna go visit all the time — but he IS my cat and she doesn’t live far away. So like how often is often enough to not feel guilty? You know the answer is no amount. I will feel guilty no matter what.

So I did up a huge list of shit that’s gotta be done because I am stressed. Today, I wanted to lay on the couch and be a depressed crying blob of anxiety paralysis. However, my sweet husband kept looking at my list and going “hey we can do this” — and doing a lot of it himself. Like we tidied up the garage and got a table ready with the toaster oven. We clipped Louie’s nails. We put the card table in the master bedroom and moved all the plants upstairs. Then we took a nap and I planted some plants.

Yall, this week at work is also gonna be a SHIT SHOW. A fucking huge shit show dumpster fire. It’s not good.

STRESS

Stress will kill you.

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Last night, I woke up to a panic attack. You know you’re fucked up when you’re stressed out WHILE SLEEPING.

I have found a decent tool to help with panic attacks after a few decades. It’s the simple counting method. I chose 6. So beath in for a count of 6 and out for a count of 6. Repeat until not dead. Last night, I combined it with a variation on breathing into a paper bag.

I just looked it up, and breathing into a paper bag helps restore your CO2 balance which can get messed up when you hyperventilate and breath out too much. Interesting.

A panic attack mid sleep isn’t the best. You can’t lay still when you feel like you’re having a heart attack. For me, I always have to bear my chest because the first thing I feel is my chest muscles clamping down. At least you can lay in bed and cry for an anxiety attack. Husband asked why I did not wake him. You can’t hug pain out.

So I stretched sideways and upward to get my chest as wide as possible and buried my face deep in my memory foam pillow. Then I did the counted breathing. Well, it sounds like I handled it perfectly, but no. I tried the stretching and breathing and it wasn’t working. And I kept just counting but not breathing with the counting. Like just counting to 6 over and over again was a magic spell or something. Took a minute to get my wits about me and just smother myself until it eased up.

its nice that in my 40s, Ive finally found something that legitimately helps me in a panic attack.

Anxiety Attack: Give me hugs and I need a nap.

Panic attack: stretch, controlled counting breaths, maybe buy some paper bags.

Funny though, I got the counting technique from a Nintendo Switch YouTuber who struggles with anxiety. This is why we gotta share our experiences, y’all. 20 years of therapy and I’m using YouTube tips.

Anyway, Sherlock’s house is coming along!

Looking down.

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So this morning at work I was consulting the Senior Scientist.  Yes, that’s his real title, I’m jealous.  My goal is to become a SME (Subject Matter Expert) which is basically what he is, but I’ve never heard them called “Senior Scientists” before this job.  It sounds so fancy.  Now I want to be one even more.

SMEs are basically the unfirable people the company can’t live without.  They can curse out the customer and not get a slap on the wrist.  They’re just too valuable because they know everything about that thing and no one else does.  I know of a one-degree-of-separation-from-me SME that was on a customer call and started ranting and cursing.  The customer being fucking NASA.  Management’s response?  Let’s not tell him when we have customer calls anymore.  I worked with a SME, Rich, and he was like 75 and already maxed out his payscale but he was too invaluable to the company to lose.  I personally witnessed him in a meeting tell the presenter “there’s no fucking way that’s gonna work and LAUGH.”  He was right, of course.  And no one said a thing.  Because it was Rich and Rich is like the guru go-to for that piece of software that no one else can figure out.  He could do something in 2 hours that would take someone else a month to figure out.  Rich knows more than you ever will.  And he can retire any minute he pleases so you don’t say shit to Rich.  SME life is where it’s at.  I just wanna be so valuable to a company for knowing everything about this one niche piece of legacy software that I can curse at whomever I please without repercussion.  It’s my only career goal besides retirement. 

It sounds like you have to be a genius to be a SME.  You don’t.  You just work on a piece of software long enough and you end up knowing everything about how it works by nature.  You just become the person everyone comes to to ask questions.  You know where this new code needs to go because you worked on that piece two years ago and you were at the initial design meetings where it was discussed.  The other engineers would need to work all that out, but you just remember it.  You have become the SME simply by staying in one place for so long.

Anyway, SME discussion aside, I was talking to our “Senior Scientist”/SME this morning.  This is one of my two favorite people at my job.  You know, the job I despise with everything I have?  Yeah, well there are a few people I like there that aren’t DeBitch.  I’d love to be outside-of-work-friends with two of these people.  And Mr Senior Scientist here is one of them.  So he’s discussing the shit I asked him about and he’s like “do you understand what I’m taking about”  — yes, I do.  And then he’s like “you seem so down.”  Well, yeah.  I’m at work.  I’m down at work.  Also it’s a Monday.    

However, I also had a panic attack this morning.  I didn’t mention that.  I might later if he mentions my spirits again.  I’m still heavily grieving my mother and you don’t realize you’re still so upset until a little thing just hits you.  I didn’t even realize I’d been hit.  Today when I got up and got ready, I went for my cat on my way downstairs – as always.  He’s either downstairs on the couch (can be verified easily as it’s visible as you pass the stairs) or in moms room.  He was in moms room curled up on the bed next to the tray with her glasses and ashes and some photos.  She’d have liked him curled up on her bed. “Look at him!”

I sat down beside him to love on him.  I’ve been careful to not rush past him in the mornings like I usually would.  I hate my job and my precious only has a short time left with me.  So I want to give him as much love as possible.  I can spare a few minutes.  So I sat beside him and started stroking his fur while looking at the photos of mom.  I thought of the conversation I had with my brother’s wife last night.  Two of my siblings are in complete despair.  I didn’t realize it was so bad for my brother.  He’s been having so much anxiety that he hasn’t spent the night in his own bed since she died.  He’s been sleeping on the couch.  Hearing that crushed me.  I adore my brother.  He was my father figure growing up. 

So for a brief moment I remembered their despair and wondered if I’m cold.  Should I be in more grief than I am?  The moment didn’t last long – a passing thought in my mind.  I didn’t marinate on the thought at all – it fluttered through.  I picked up the cat and carried him downstairs to shove a pill down his throat.  He still resists those fucking pills with everything he has in him.  Give me a break, fuzzy fuzzy!  I’m doing this FOR YOU. 

And then my chest tightened.  A panic attack.  The burning knot behind my sternum.  The absolute feeling of existential dread.  The elevated heart rate.  What the fuck?  I started beating on my chest to try and relax the muscles.  Trying to talk myself down in my head.  Relax relax relax.  Focus on your breathing.  Focus on the cold granite of the counter top you’re now leaning on to try to ease the pain.  The smoothness of the stone. The quarter bevel edge you chose – good choice, you.  Full round is tacky.  Look at the plants in the window.  Ground yourself.  Don’t lose it.  Don’t give in.  Beat on your chest some more because damn I’m having a heart attack now.  At least it’s before work and not after.  If I’m going down, take me down before my ass has to go to work.  Relax relax relax.  It’s ok.  You got this. Damn that hurts.  It’s okay. It’s okay.  Pound on your chest.  Deep rub the muscles.  You’re good.  Work is gonna be good cause you didn’t slack off Friday.   

Stand up and get going.  The world doesn’t stop for you.  The world doesn’t give a shit about your feelings.  You have a meeting in 30 minutes. 

So I grabbed my stuff.  Feed my good boy his stinky food.  He gets it twice a day after discovering he lost an entire pound between vet visits for his kidney workups.  Grab my keys and lock the door behind me as Mr C is still sleeping.  Beat on my chest as I walk to the car.  And now Chucks telling me I look “down.”  I am down, Chuck.  I’m real down.

I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. Then the check engine light came on.

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I has been a week. Let me tell ya. Monday I was so anxious and overwhelmed that I skipped work. I had watched 90 Day Fiance which was me and moms show. We both call each other to remind each other it is coming on and then talk about how crazy everyone is. And Natalie be CRAZY. Mom will never see how crazy she is and we cant talk about it. Who’s watching our show with me now? Just me and the cat, I guess. And he doesn’t care how crazy Natalie is, which she really is.

I’ve been hyper focused on the cat as a bit of a break from the far heavier death of mom. So of course I’m upset that even with all the changes, he’s still only got a life expectancy of 1 – 2 years. I assume that includes a lot of decline towards the end as well. So it’s difficult. I just gave him his fluids via stabby needle an hour or so ago. He’s resting in his bed next to me. With a big lump of fluid on his side. Poor guy.

Also, I’m anxious about starting vestibular physical therapy. With not having to drive much thanks to Covid, I had kinda of convinced myself I was all better. This is fine. Ya know? And acknowledging that I still get really sick driving is a hard pill to swallow. I certainly don’t want to go back to last January when I had to do my physical therapy exercises twice a day and got nausea and vertigo every time. It was miserable. So I don’t wanna. That’s basically what it boils down to. I don’t wanna.

Work’s been… bad, I guess? Honestly, I haven’t been working. I’ve been just getting though my days. I’m sorry, I’m just trying to not break down, yall. Like I said, Monday I didn’t even make it in to work. So my not-very-important task has been halted half done. But this is the last week of the sprint so my favorite coworker was assigned to help me with it. Of course DeBitch made a snarky asshole remark. DeBitch was one of the main reasons I didn’t go in Monday. I just didn’t want to deal with that shit. And of course I feel terrible.

It’s a team carry. I’m the teammate down and my team is carrying me over the finish line. It’s embarrassing and …well… embarrassing. I’m ashamed of myself. But then I also need the carry. So I’m grateful but also want to crawl up in a hole and die. Mostly the latter.

So I’ve got a lot going on that’s stressing me out. A lot. And then the check engine light in my car comes on yesterday on the way to work. God dammit, are you serious? So I have a scanner to read the codes — it’s some faulty circuit in the temperature sensor. But still, kick me when I’m down, will ya?

I just want to crawl up in a hole and die. Or to retire and crawl up on the couch and never leave the house again. That’s fine too.