That right there, my friends, is my most favoritest word EVER. With eleven “U’s”, even (and how many of you counted ’em?). With all of the words in the English language at my disposal, that one up there is THE WORD OF WORDS.
It made me feel enormously better, just typing that title up there. But only for a minute.
Things are so fucked right now. I’m on DAY TWO of a continuous panic attack that started during our staff meeting YESTERDAY, and hasn’t let up, and probably won’t let up for a week. You see, layoff announcements are scheduled for next Monday, and our manager is supposed to hold individual meetings with each person in our group over Monday and Tuesday. You know, to let us know if we’re in the way of the layoff guillotine, or if we’ve made it through another round with only our sanity scathed.
Yes, we’ve known it’s been coming since, oh, January or February. But IT’S HEEEERE, now, thus my totally amp’ed anxiety level. I want to stress eat like a bitch, and that crack whore of a Little Debbie has the NERVE to create escapism heaven in a box of Nutty Bars. I’ve only eaten two out of the box since Sunday, which is me putting on the BRAKES OF WILLPOWER STEEL on my temptation to just say, “Fuck it” and eat the whole damned box in one sitting.
How many Xanax in a 24-hour period is too many, I wonder?
I was a total zombie when I got home from work yesterday. Calvin wasn’t home yet, so I fed and soaked the lizards. Then he got home and saw just WHAT a mood I was in, and decided to give me space (other than a lovely long and MUCH NEEDED hug). I folded and/or hung up ALL the laundry (like, two weeks’ worth) and put it all away. Midway through folding the laundry I took a Xanax because I felt like I was going to leap out of my skin and go gibbering – skinless, mind you – around the house like a lunatic. I cleaned the kitchen. I made dinner. I flopped down on the couch and ate and watched Fringe, followed by Deadliest Catch. I toyed with the idea of taking a bubble bath but decided to just take a couple of Tylenol PM and try to pass out.
I woke up this morning with a hard knot of panic in my stomach. I couldn’t take a Xanax first thing – I’d be asleep at my desk by 8:30. So I got up, put on some workout clothes, and did a half-hour on the elliptical before work (as promised, Kim!). Which didn’t really do anything for my anxiety level, but did make me hungrier ‘n a motherfucker by the time I got to my desk and had my sprouted bread and cream cheese.
None of my anxiety management techniques are working – NONE of them. Not even this one of writing myself out. The only cure is to get on the other side of next week and finally know if I’m keeping my job or if I’m screwed. I waffle between being absolutely convinced that I’m getting laid off, to being reasonably sure that I’m not. I can play both scenarios in my head with startling clarity.
Either way, I’ll probably cry in front of my boss when he tells me which way things are going. Cry, or throw up. I WAS just going to bring tissues with me, in case I needed them. Now I probably should figure out how to smuggle a basin into the conference room with some sort of subtlety. Though, hah, if he lays me off I’m sure I won’t feel all that bad about spattering his shoes.
Eh, that’s not right. If I get laid off it won’t be HIS fault, since the decision, right down to the specific people getting cut, is coming from the Higher Ups. He just gets to deliver the happy message.
Hmm. Perhaps he’s even more fucked than I am.
Tonight, bereft of any chores to do (oh, I’m sure I could find something, but I assure you I don’t plan to look very hard) I’ll do some strength training, and probably take that delayed bubble bath. Maybe get caught up on a couple of episodes of Dexter. You know, compare MY bad day to any one of his victims. That’ll make me feel better.
This entry has been brought to you by the letter “F”.
Thanks for listening.