Recently I’ve been suffering from emotional hyper-sensitivity, an inability to make decisions, to think in a logical fashion or to employ what is commonly referred to as “patience.” You might say, “But Sizz, isn’t that like a normal day for you?” To which I might reply, “Kindly, fuck off.”
It’s the PMS talking. Don’t take it personally. Really.
Since moving into the new apartment and taking on the second job, I feel stressed out most of the time. I didn’t realize how much though until I went away for the weekend. On the first weekend of the month (re: when rent is due). Without an on-site substitute to ward off disasters (though my bro-in-law was on call as a back up just in case). With three open units to rent. While The Fella and I were gone in Cannon Beach, he wanted me to only check my messages once a day. We negotiated to twice and I stuck to it. Luckily, nothing major occurred and I was able to return home without haste.
Except the moment I walked into my apartment I felt. . .heavy. My place is STILL not decorated. It’s half-assed with no couch, mismatched chairs and lighting that needs to be installed. And that’s just the living room! I think the disarray is effecting how I feel when I am home. I don’t do well in disorganization. I don’t rest well in my bedroom because there are still boxes and my bed is squeaky and uncomfortable. Add to this the feeling of constantly being “on” because tenants need things, the building needs cleaning, and I have to show units and get them rented ASAP or heads will roll.
Not heads in the plural. One head, actually. Mine.
I put a lot of pressure on myself to excel at the tasks I take on. I am currently over my limit, not taking time for myself (or when I do, feeling guilty about it) and generally just checking out of what would normally be considered fun activities because I “have too much work to do.” In the past week I have missed out on two shows (that I already had tickets for- waste of money!) because I was too tired, too busy having an emotional meltdown, too bloated with PMS to find an outfit that didn’t make me feel like a stuffed cabbage, too, too, too, too much of everything, really. It’s gotten to the point where I actually said, “I don’t care about my birthday.” Wha!? Me?! The epitome of an Aries saying she doesn’t care about her birthday?!
Is the world spinning off its axis?
So it’s time for a new way of being. If I keep this up, I will lose my shit. It will not be pretty. And I’m not ashamed to admit. . . I like the pretty. I am striving for the pretty, people. I’m crying out: Jesus, take the wheel!
Ok, I’m not really calling out for Jesus- I’ll leave that for Carrie Underwood- but me, myself and I are gonna have what is commonly referred to as “a come to Jesus” talk. It’s time to get real and make some changes. I am tired of feeling this way.