If I say "no" to your whimsical invitation to Karaoke on a Tuesday night, please don't be offended

I've been a bit absent from the world lately.  There's a whole lot of reasons for this, and I haven't quite sussed them all out into words yet, so bear with me as I try.

First and foremost, I'd like to address the subject of sleep. We've all pulled long hours at some point or another, whether studying for a test or being sucked into Buffy for twelve hours straight and forgetting about work tomorrow. . . We've all been sleep deprived.  You know what it feels like.  It makes the world a foggy place, where most things are a little confusing until you reach the point where all of those confusing things become hilarious and you feel a little bit drunk.  Now imagine that for a year, only after a while the laughing hysterically at your clumsiness (most likely caused by lack of adequate rest) stops.  It becomes much less of a joke.  Like, a lot less.  

I've been living in this strange cycle of sleeping then not sleeping then sleeping again since I started my job at Rebel about a year ago.  Its difficult to explain to anyone who hasn't ever had an odd schedule what my schedule is like, and why I have a tough time getting enough sleep.  It isn't because I'm unmotivated to go to bed on time, or that I don't care about it.  Believe me I do care.  This is not college, and I am not up all hours partying even though I have an exam/paper due/work the next day.  I try to be in bed by 8pm every night.  That sounds early to you, doesn't it?  It sounds early to me too.  Problem is, that's actually LATE.  Like, really late, and if I'm being honest its more realistic to say that I may TRY to be in bed by 8pm, but more than likely I get to bed by 8:30 or 9.  That means I may get 6 hours of sleep.  If I'm lucky and don't wake up to my first alarm.  Fact is, I wake up somewhere in the 2 o'clock hour.  2 o'clock in the morning.  5 days a week.  

Because I make donuts for a living.  

I'm not really complaining so much as explaining.  I need to explain this.  I need to be understood about this.  I don't go out any more, at least not often. I don't have the energy to drive the 30-40 minutes to visit my parents or friends (who are like family).  I feel like they must all think I'm ignoring and neglecting them.  Truth is, I've been neglecting myself.  Seriously neglecting myself.  

Two months ago, I was at a low I haven't been in since I was a sophomore in college.  As a sophomore, I was trying to feed myself three times a day (I failed most of the time), I had just quit self-harming (which was causing anxiety attacks to surface with no coping mechanisms in place), and I was seeing a therapist twice a week just to maintain some semblance of social functionality.  I hid it pretty well from most people.  I mean, everyone knew I was a little off, but they either didn't know me well enough to know just how off I was, or I wasn't spending much time around people who did know me.  I was working full time, negotiating several unhealthy relationships, and somehow maintaining my grades in school.  I was also having panic attacks so bad I ended up hallucinating.  I would envision blood dripping from my arms in a room full of razors, because until then it (and starving myself) were the only ways I knew how to deal with stress and anxiety.  When I told my therapist (Theresa, I'll never forget her) heard about them, she immediately set me up with a psychiatrist to see about medications.  I had tried several of them before and hated how numb I became.  They always ended up making me feel less than human.  I'd rather suffer from severe anxiety attacks and an eating disorder than feel dead inside.  But the doctor and my therapist agreed that it was necessary.  They prescribed me the lowest dosage of (the then brand new) Effexor  at the lowest dosage.  Within three months the hallucinations had stopped and I was able to get through a week without hiding under my desk (it was my go-to place when I felt a severe anxiety attack coming on).  I made friends.  I broke up with my boyfriend.  I accepted my sexuality.  I learned how to cope with stress in healthy ways (talking to friends about my stressors, being in public places ALL the time so I could be surrounded by humans, journaling, etc.), and soon I was thriving.  I was alive, and I felt amazing.  I gained weight.  I exercised for health, not out of some compulsive need to.  I made out with a lot of girls and took my pants off at a lot of parties.  I was ok.

When I graduated and moved out on my own (for real, with no help from my parents), I had to stop taking Effexor.  I lost my health insurance since I was no longer a student, so I couldn't afford it.  In all honesty though, I probably wouldn't have been able to afford it anyway since it was new and expensive even with my parents relatively wonderful health insurance (they claimed I didn't need to take THAT drug, since I could just be taking prozac like a normal crazy person, since it was cheaper and already available in a generic).  So, I went through a little withdrawal period.  It wasn't actually too bad, since I had a lot of amazing people around me and was too busy out playing and living life to notice the symptoms.  

It was honestly the best period of my life up to that point.

Lets fast forward about three years.  

I was miserably trudging away at a job I hate (Big Red Wireless, we'll call it) and yet unexpectedly falling in love with the best possible person I could have ever decided to have a fling with (Dan, to whom I am now married), and it somehow balanced out.  I was unhappy mind you, but unhappy with the goal of finding something I might actually enjoy doing.

Craigslist solved that problem for me, and I began my job at Rebel.  It was a breath of fresh air.  It was like the black, bitter, angry world of Big Red Wireless had cracked open to reveal that there was still Good in the world.  Not only was I doing something I love ("baking," even though technically donuts are fried), but I was doing it surrounded by amazing women who inspired me.  The sleep schedule didn't bother me, I was too happy to mind a little bit of sleep deprivation.

Then I had a wedding.  I large wedding.  A really fun wedding.  A really stressful wedding.

From forcing myself to going to bed no later than 8pm, I had friends and family surrounding me, and I was up till all hours.  I got maybe 4 hours of sleep the week of my wedding.  

Then we went on a honeymoon.  To Disneyland.  Fun, but not at all restful.

Then things calmed down for a time.  I had trouble getting my sleep schedule back in order, but that was ok still.  I just skipped on social events and stopped seeing my friends.  I was busy, tired, and I needed sleep.  People were understanding, if confused.

Then we opened a second location, and I was given the honor of managing that location.  It was a huge leap of faith the owners took in me.  I think I may have cried, privately, because of how badly I have always wanted this.  Being a manger is something I feel like I was born to do.  I enjoy it more than I can explain.  It seems a little silly to say out loud, but it was huge goal I've had for many years.  Not only that, but it was with a company I can actually stand behind, promote, and be proud to say I'm part of.  

It was, and still is, one of the most challenging things I've ever undertaken.

I was sick when we opened the store.  Half of our equipment was broken or incomplete, and I had to just sort of make do.  I certainly did NOT do it alone, but at points I was a driving force behind things.  I had to be, it's my store.  

I worked through a severe stomach flu (I'm sure you all wanted to know that someone handling your food has a stomach bug.  Problem is, in the food industry we often have no choice.  Its not like there was someone else to take my place, and I couldn't just say no to my paycheck.  We, as a company, can't afford to pay for health insurance or sick days.).  One of my assistant managers caught what I had and ended up in the hospital.  I just powered through running only on imodium, pepto, and Rockstar Recovery (the lemonade flavor).  I lost sight of eating.  I knew it may be a problem, but I figured it was just because I was sick and stressed out.  That once my body got well, I would go right back to eating normally.

It sort of did, but not really.

I went so hard for so long that it took me twice as long to get well as it should have, and I still never admit to anyone just how bad it was.  I lost weight.  I was constantly dehydrated.  I never got more than three hours of sleep.  We were too busy and everyone else was too new to handle it appropriately.  I worked no less than 50 hours a week for the first two months.  I worked from 3:30am to 2:00pm, most days.  

Things slowed down eventually, once the novelty had worn off a little.  I was so grateful, I can't even explain. I shouldn't have been happy, but I almost jumped for joy the first time we had a day under $1000.  I caught up on my sleep a little, giving myself more closing shifts than opening.  I thought for sure I'd be able to maintain some level of health.  

Boy howdy was I wrong.

My grandmother became ill, hospitalized, and I had a deep need to see her.  I had planned on visiting sometime anyway, we just put a rush on our trip, just in case. It was a restful trip, while at the same time it was hard. My grandma is doing a lot better now, thankfully.  I'm still glad we went.

Dan was wonderfully supportive and kind through all of this, even though he had just recieved a promotion at work as well as accepting a new position with one of the local independant papers to write a column, is still in school, and still has his own radio show to produce.  He still made time for me.

I got home from vacation to upheaval in my staff.  People were talking about people, there was a fight, and eventually someone walked out.

I felt wholly responsible. The whole situation brought a lot of my weaknesses as a leader into stark light. My confidence was shaken.  In my eyes, I had failed.  It took a toll on me.  Then suddenly, I realized everything was taking a toll on me.

It occurred to me that at some point during all this newness and business and change, I had stopped.  I mean, I still went to work and I still made a show of being involved in my personal life (read: Dan), but I wasn't really present.  My whole self was crumbling down around me, and had been for a while, and I had failed to recognize it. I refused to visit with people based on the excuse, "I'm too busy."  Really I meant, "I'm not worth it."  I stopped bathing (something I don't love doing anyway, I know I'm gross, but did every other day anyway just to be sanitary) but for when I could no longer stand how my body felt.  That meant anywhere from four to eight days without a shower.  I stopped getting ready.  I stopped painting my toes.  I stopped being nice to Dan.  I stopped making dinner.  I stopped cleaning my house.  I stopped eating.  

I just stopped.

I lost 5lbs the last two weeks of June.  I was regularly skipping meals.  I couldn't stomach food.  Eating, for me, means that I am worth it.  It means that I have a reason to keep going.  It means I don't need to be in control, its ok to just live.  But somewhere along the way, I stopped believing those things.  

Looking back, I can say that it wasn't always that way.  But that when I withdrew from my friends and family and when I made work my only priority, I was doomed.  I would love to go back about four moths and shake myself.  Hug myself.  Tell me to take care of myself.  But honestly, would I have listened?  I have trouble believing it now.  The loudest voice in my head is one saying, "Stop feeling sorry for yourself.  Boo-friggin-hoo, you big baby.  So, you don't get a lot of sleep at night, you've alienated yourself from your support network, and you stopped functioning like a grown adult.  Get over yourself.  Get up and just do it, stop being such a lazy unproductive asshole and get to work.  You don't need all the shit you think you do, like sleep,  or food, or the energy and support you get from being around people you love."  Which really sounds ridiculous, when I say it like that.  

But its what my relatively unhealthy subconscious believes.  Its what it has always believed.  It is, in fact, mental illness.  I'm really exhausted, and hiding this from the world is making me even more exhausted.

I realized that fact a few weeks ago, and reached out to Dan.  Together we reached out to a therapist.  Dan's not exactly Mentally Stable Mable either, and I was afraid of how my confession of having something so seriously wrong with me would affect him. He was amazing, and I'm almost ashamed to what I thought might happen when I told him.  Its over now I guess, and we're seeing someone, together, and its helping.  I've been able to swing myself back up a little.  I force myself to be social (our therapist pointed out that I'm inherently and extrovert, so I did some reading and decided on a plan of action).  I've developed a pretty serious case of social anxiety (seriously, read the link.  I function under a constant fear of being rejected socially) and its difficult for me to just enjoy being with people.  I want to do it so badly, I need it, but first I need to also recover from the backsliding I did in June in regards to eating (I still find myself inadvertently skipping meals), and how to deal with the anxiety that has crept back into my life.

I haven't had any hallucinations, yet, but I sure did finally break down at work.  I think I scared our poor little 17 year old with my temper.  I sure know I haven't lost it like that in. . . Gosh, years.  It was embarrassing.  

In an attempt to be more social, I have been skimping on sleep again.  Two things I simultaneously need, and are difficult to acquire given my bizarre schedule.  Skipping sleep didn't used to be such a big deal, but in the past it was only once in a while, not five times a week for weeks on end.  Normal situations have become stressful (dishes, laundry, feeding myself. . .), and stressful situations (no power at work at 4am, dealing with cops, deciding how to handle the rest of the day, and being proved that I didn't need to have been so worried about my day since the COPPER THIEF messed with our power so he didn't get electrocuted, only to work an excruciating 10 hour day with a whole lot more that I don't feel like going into right now) prove to be impossible for me to deal with. Hence freaking. The. Heck. Out. at work.  

Truth is, sleep deprivation has a better hold on me than I could have ever imagined.  And it is causing more problems than I even thought possible.  Then there's the reality that if I sleep for 7 hours a night (the minimum for the average adult) it means I go to bed at 7pm.  If I want 8 hours, I go to bed at 6pm.  Guess who gets home at 6 or 7pm?  My husband.  Guess who is still asleep when I wake up at 2:30am?  My husband.  Guess who's still at work when I realistically have the energy to be social?  Everyone.  

What can I do?  I'm sure you have a billion solutions to the problem.  Most, if not all, of which I have already considered and decided probably won't work.  There are intricacies of this situation I did not cover, since I'm sure this is already too long to be a quick read.  I have very little wiggle room.  Both of the owners have stepped up to fight this with me, as has Dan and my friends.  I'm certainly not alone, I just don't quite know what the solution is yet.  

I am hopeful though. I'm just not really open to your helpful suggestions yet.  I'll let you know when I am.  See, right now, I'm just doing everything in my power to stay positive, and a whole lot of suggestions feel condescending to me.  They make me feel like no one trusts my judgement or ability to grow from strenuous times.  I can.  I do.  I will.

But for now, I just need to get this out. I just need to know that someone has read this.  I need to believe that no one is mad at me for.  I need to be believed that something is wrong and that I'm not just some annoying, whining, crybaby who can't handle normal stress. I need someone to know that this is hard to do, and I need to be trusted to get up and keep doing it anyway.  I'll let you know when I'm not so raw, when I'm ready to listen to the helpful advice of others.  Its just that I  fought my way back up from a place I had hoped I'd never revisit, and I did it without medication or therapy in the way I did last time.  I'm tired.  Honestly, genuinely, tired.  Hugs, patience, and love, appreciated.  

Also, if you want to come to my house to play (or color, or watch Buffy) between 1pm and 4pm Tuesday through Friday (given the understanding that you will also probably have to watch me fold laundry), I would love that.