I counted. Apparently today is the eighth day in a row that I've been working, and while my job is not strenuous physically, it is definitely strenuous mentally at times. I think I sprained my brain. Boss asked me this morning to write down statistics for the marketing I did three weeks ago. I seriously do not remember three weeks ago. I sort of remember having a couple mopey days in my basement while I was here alone and the man took the dogs off on their adventure. That's it. Anything I did or said beyond that I truly don't remember. So remembering how many phone calls or emails I sent that week is absolutely beyond me.
It's not that I'm complaining about being busy. I'm thrilled, quite honestly. To recap, I got my first sales contract. It's exciting as hell. Plus I have other buyer clients who are keeping me busy with searching, and I'm still working and learning up at the brokerage. But I haven't given myself time to breathe, much less fit in that "sleep 6-7 hours at night and nap 2-3 hours every day" business that the doctor asked me to do. I think I tried to nap once a week or so ago. I lay in the bed for an hour stressing until I couldn't lie still anymore (not that I was still to begin with, tossing and turning) and I gave up and went back to work. Last night, while I was trying to make sure all the ducks were in a row with this first contract, I was still working at 10 last night, and after a quick blog, I went out to the hot tub, and sat rigid and tense with my brain still freaking out about whether all the emails and phone calls were made. This is not conducive to finding better health despite autoimmune disease. I need to remember to shut it off. Didn't I write about that just a few days ago? Well, I'm not taking my own advice yet. Too much on the line.
Way back when we lived in Barstow, California (in town for two months, and then way out in the desert for a few years after that), I remember trying to explain what stress does to me. The man had slammed on the brakes of the car at a busy intersection, and I hadn't been paying attention to my surroundings. I had a brief rush of stress hormone, like a sharp shock of electric poison flooding my veins, all the way down to the tiniest capillaries. Frankly, that reaction hurts. I don't always float through it with good grace. Sometimes I shout a little, which I probably did that day. Frequently I shout obscenities, which I might have done then too. When stress is ongoing for me, I have a smaller reaction like that, but it just never stops. My hands and feet and face tingle with the cortisol that won't stop flowing. At least, I assumed that's what it was. Who knows. Maybe this is yet one more bit of unpleasantness to lay at lupus' door. My attempted explanations have always fallen on deaf ears. "No, Anne, just you," they always say.
I got to network at a Rotary social this evening. It was well-attended and a lot of fun. But I couldn't just let myself turn off and relax for it. Instead I decided that my potluck contribution would be an hors d'oeuvre that takes effort. I filled dates with flavored goat cheese and tiny slivers of fresh sage from my garden, and painstakingly wrapped each one with prosciutto. I spent almost two hours making finger food for a party that only lasted two hours itself. Granted, I got a lot of compliments on them (and there were even other stuffed dates, these just with blue cheese and nothing else), but I obviously don't know how to make it easy. I think I'll just look for the off switch and go to bed early. I'll tell myself to dream of the gorgeous antique dental cabinet that I coveted at the home of tonight's Rotary host, and see whether that makes me calm down. (I bet it won't, but the reason why is a story for another day.)
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