Hypochondria

I don’t have MERS, but tell that to my overactive brain, who is fearing my seasonal allergies are something more sinister. No, I am just anxious to be away from home, uncertain at work - especially as my boss is acting as if nothing happened, which is probably best - and tired. Oh, and not feeling well.

Historically, it’s a combination that would either have me at the casino until 3:30 a.m. to drive an hour back to the hotel, sleep 2 hours and then go into the office. Or, I’d come back to the room, drink myself oblivious, eat my way though a buffet of bad decisions, gorge on crap TV, still stay up too late and try to slog through the next day with a soul-crushing hangover. Then repeat the next day. I don’t know how I never landed myself in the hospital behaving like that.

This time ‘round: so far, two sober nights here at the Holiday Inn, bringing my total to 40. I am sure there is a biblical pun here, but I’m tired and, truthfully, don’t even feel like writing, which is precisely why I had to.

But I also reached out tonight. To my sponsor, to my sister, to my parents and to a friend. And my husband. I haven’t willingly made 5 phone calls in one night in … years probably. Certainly months.

And I’m trying to get to a place of peace with my boss. I think I’m there, if only because the idea of leaving is bringing me some peace.

Along with peace, I’ll get some sweet, sober sleep. I may still wake up dragging ass, but at least I won’t be hungover. That is still novel 40 days in. Thanks, lord, for your help. Please help me again tomorrow, and try to guide me so I’m not a jerk. Thank you.