So, despite hanging out here, I never really thought I had a “high stress” job. I mean, I always thought a “high stress” job involves life or death sorts of things—like jobs that require you to carry a gun, catch king crabs, rescue people from burning buildings, or insert stents. Whatever stents are, I definitely don’t want to insert them.
Then, beyond the category of job where one’s own possible death, or the death of others, is part of the package, there are those job situations where stress is inherent as well. Such as jobs where your boss is an incredible dick. Or where you really don’t have any job security. Or where you hate what you do, or realize you aren’t capable anymore of fulfilling your job description. Or your commute is two hours long each way. Or those jobs that are just so physically demanding that people burn out by 45. Not having a job at all, and desperately needing one, is its own peculiar hell.
So what on earth should I have to stress about? I could do my job blind and in a wheelchair. They can’t fire me. My commute is eight minutes long and if I get there before nine I can park about twenty feet away from my office. And my office itself is perfect. Despite being underpaid, I have a living wage, and benefits. I am not in any financial distress. I don’t think I’m in any distress at all. As for my personal life, I hesitate to say it is ideal only because I am loathe to draw the evil eye.
But apparently my body begs to differ. According to my body, I am under a lot of stress. Because after asking me a number of questions about my sleeping habits and my general mood, my doctor prescribed me a bottle full of Xanax, to add to the Ambien I’m already taking. Oh, and the antidepressant, because if I don’t take that, I will spontaneously decide to walk into whirling factory equipment.
I guess it was the sleeplessness and the freak outs that led him to prescribe the Xanax. Because in addition to my problems sleeping (even with the Ambien), I will freak out seemingly over nothing, because I don’t really have “something” to freak out about at all. Last time, I freaked out over the fact that my husband put the tomatoes in the fridge. I’ve told him a kabillion times that tomatoes don’t belong in the fridge, and when I saw them in the crisper I went berserk. Like, “FUCK YOU YOU ASSHOLE MAKE YOUR OWN FUCKING DINNER I TOLD YOU NOT TO PUT THE TOMATOES IN THE FRIDGE YOU FUCKER!” berserk.
Pretty fucking berserk. And let me tell you, putting the tomatoes in the fridge is pretty much the extreme of my kind, thoughtful husband’s transgressions. So now, when I feel that berserk coming on, I take a Xanax. Ahhhh…suddenly my husband can put the tomatoes up the dog’s ass and I wouldn’t care.
But what I’ve been noticing since I turned in grades last Monday is that I don’t need Xanax. Or the Ambien. Or, to be perfectly frank, the Metamucil. Because all semester I’ve basically not been able to sleep or poop. Chewing Xanax and fiber tablets all day is really no way to go through life, but life, such as it is, provides no alternative save for quitting my job. And I like my job. Even more than I like pooping. But it is nice to have a rest, at least until Boxing Day, when I have to start working on the four preps I have this spring.
So, Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night. Sans Ambien, and Metamucil, at least for a couple of days.