Stress

Sleep deprivation sucks.

Nausea. Short temper. Easier to tears. Micro naps while I drive. And, frankly, I stop giving a fuck, at times acting like a bitch.

It's the busy season; I am very sleep deprived.

When I woke up Sunday morning, my room was muggy and hot. I had gotten to sleep around 5am. It was 12:26pm when my body could not stand the heat any longer.

Even though I got a relatively good amount of rest, this followed multiple days of 3-5hrs of sleep and a few 20hr days.

As I laid in bed, I contemplated all the things I had to do. There were, in fact, many errands I wanted to run. It was my first day off since Tuesday.

I didn't want to get out of bed. I didn't want to do anything. But I had a mound of dirty clothes that I absolutely had to wash, not to mention health care paperwork to fill out and Shibaricon packing to start.

Forcing myself out of bed, I grabbed my clothes hamper and lumbered down the stairs. I heard my roommates laughing and talking in the dining room, but choose to not say hi.

In the laundry room, I put down my hamper and opened the washer; clothes inside. I checked the dryer; clothes inside.

I huffed, and then headed to the dining room.

"Whose clothes are in the dryer," I asked, I hope not grumpily.
"Doesn't matter," said DeepEnd. "The dryer's broken."
"Really!"

I stomped my feet. I put my head against the wall.

"I have to go."

I could feel the tears coming as I went back to the laundry room, grabbed my hamper, and rushed back into my room. I stripped off my pajamas. I crawled back into my bed. I cried into my covers, squeezing Tessie tight, wanting the world to go away.

All I wanted was to wash my fucking clothes. All I wanted was to get something, anything done. This was suppose to be my day off.

I was angry. I was upset. I was sleep deprived.

I needed to do something. I wanted to pound a wall, rip something apart.

With a start, I got back out of bed, put on my workout clothes, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, I grabbed a banana and poured a glass of Silk.

"Hun, what are you averaging? An hour of sleep a night?" It seemed SkinnyBitch had an idea of my problem. I gave her a grunt of an answer.

Quickly finishing my food, I went into the Sun Room.

On my iPhone, I started up my Dance/Pop Mix. I turned on the treadmill and started walking. After a minute, I increased the speed. And again. And again. Each minute or two I kept making it go faster, until I was running. Really running. My feet flying up in the air, breathing heavy running.

It was the first time I'd really ran on the tread. My workout is normally a mix of fast walking and jogging.

As my feet pounded on the tread, I imagined my footfalls pounding away my problems, pounding out my anger, pounding away all the bullshit that was my life.

After a few minutes, I lowered the speed. Slowly I came down. Slowly I returned to walking.

And, somehow, it made it all better.

I joined my roommates at the dining room table, feeling more like myself.

I completed no errands Sunday, and, frankly, I think I am the better for it.