For those of you who don’t know, my husband is from England. Lack of sleep is highly correlated with depression and in England when someone is depressed, they say, “Go home and get some sleep.”
Here in the USA, the answer is prescription meds and therapy.
I have been suffering with chronic depression for over 10 years now and it definitely comes in waves.
The past week I have been committing corporal abuse. It could may as well be the last couple weeks as I’m not sure when I originally moved into my office to torture myself into sleeping in my workspace. The days mix into each other and all I recognize are tasks that pop up in the top corner as notifications ping on my desktop.
A cocktail of not having slept until — I didn’t even sleep last night. I pulled an all nighter and went to the park with the dog, forced myself into the sunlight and cast myself upon my bed at home’s arrival. Immediate darkness presented itself as I sat up to see that a couple hours have gone by and I was not able to keep myself awake any longer.
I felt loads better.
The rest of the concoction includes the starting of my period. Thank you hormones for tearing me up 5 times today and having used a handful of tissues around my puffy eyes and wet, blocked nose. And finally, the heavy hitting burnout and forcing myself to do more for my work.
More work = more results.
Tomorrow I am going to make sure to take a mental health day. Do some light work. Remember to eat something. Listen to something I actually enjoy like a podcast, audiobook, or some Wagner. Then perhaps take in a silly 90’s tv show.
Hope will be restored and I can get back to business as I enter launch mode. This is hard. This is taking everything out of me.
Every idea has a plethora of tasks that need to be executed. Several systems need to be organized for every word that is recorded on my notepad. One concept equals 10 other responsibilities to complement every endeavor.
The problem is I needed to start yesterday. I’m already behind.
But I can only do so much. To the point I had the thought of hanging myself in my office and leaving an empty note.
If I were narcissistic enough I’d only leave a post it on the fridge that said, “avocado, tomato, cheese”. A grocery list was my last written will and testament. Nothing especially prepared to hint at the problem this solution rendered.
I repeat to myself after having written in cursive redundantly:
- period hormones
- burnout + overworking
- lack of sleep
Business, I love you endlessly. But you’re killing me.