I suffer from post-traumatic stress amnesia every year apparently. I never ever remember just how bad year end is. January starts and the work cranks up and all of that other stuff (my life) that I think I can just keep participating in becomes the extra stuff that stresses me out because there is so much work to do.
That is not cool.
As the month goes on, I start to miss classes and meetings.
I come in to those I don't miss with clinched teeth and a face weary from stress.
I eat dinner late because I get home late and I stay up too late because I have to wind down and that doesn't happen quickly.
I'm tired because I stay up too late.
The dance teacher sees my daughter more than I do.
I never see the dance teacher, my friend.
I feel torn when I spend time with my husband alone because I haven't seen the kids all week either.
Not a single picture of my family gets taken by my real camera.
None of the pictures I do take are inspiring or worth sharing save for those from the one trip to the gardens that I squeak into the middle of one working Saturday.
I work every Saturday.
I miss funerals.
I fail to send sympathy cards.
I find that what I'm able to muster up appreciation for at the end of each day in my gratitude journal is likely food or drink.
I start to make decisions from the bed about whether or not I just need to go ahead and get to my desk instead of working out.
This year I actually start to decide to get to my desk instead of working out. Frequently.
And, then, to finish it off with a punch in the gut: my evaluation. Actually delivered to me a day late on February 1st. So, I guess that might be for another blog post altogether.
One I'll never publish lest I end up dooce'd.