off-the-cuff 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.”
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.
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