I'm sorry I've fallen off the face of the planet yet again. I had a few blogs I've been planning, and I was also supposed to be starting my novel, but unfortunately I've fallen ill. Yes, sometime on Saturday I started feeling really crappy. I thought it was just a migraine, and I spent all Sunday in bed feeling rather unproductive. There were a few unpleasant incidences that I won't go into detail about. I woke up ridiculously early today and realized there was absolutely no way I was going to be able to make it to work.
Now I should mention -- I HATE calling out sick. I hate it. I used to LOVE calling out sick because it meant I didn't have to go into work. That was back when I hated my jobs. Now I actually like my job and I'm emotionally invested in the work I do. Staying home sick feels like I am leaving my baby on a subway train or something. I feel like something is happening I should know about, or that I am missing a deadline I can't remember because I don't have my Outlook calendar to remind me, or that someone is mad at me for not being there. I hate this feeling...almost more than actually being sick. If I could've lifted my head off the pillow for longer than it took to call out, I would've gone in. But it wouldn't have been a pretty sight.
Now my sleep schedule is all thrown off because I was in bed all day, and I still feel pretty crappy. I'm about to get in bed, but somehow I feel like I am still not going to feel up to snuff tomorrow. I HATE this! There was a time when I never got sick while I was at work, or at school. I saved my "sick days" for mental health days or for classes I knew I would hate because, somehow, I never got sick. I wouldn't fall ill until I got home for Christmas break. Then, suddenly, I would be bedridden for most of the holiday. I missed a good number of family parties because my body saved up the sickness until I had time off. But now that I actually like my job and don't want to call out sick? It's like my body doesn't remember it's little trick.
I hate this! And I hate it even more because, at least when I would get sick over the holidays I had family to take care of me. I hate being a grown-up and having to take care of myself when I can barely function. I'm lucky I was able to summon up the strength to throw a bedsheet over my bedroom window on Sunday, before I got really sick, so that no excess sunlight comes in and makes me want to die.
Send me get-well vibes. I need to be back in by Wednesday or I am going to pitch a fit! If not from OCD-workaholic syndrome than from sheer boredom. And while my head is slowly starting to feel less and less like an overripe grapefruit, my chest and lungs are beginning to rebel. I feel like I just smoked a carton of cigarettes and then ran a marathon. And my back is starting to kill from laying in bed all day. This is, hands down, the #1 reason why I need to find a doctor who isn't in Manhattan. I am in no shape to haul myself to the kitchen to make some soup, let alone to an appointment in Midtown.
Ok, enough bitching. Off to bed. Pray I wake up and have miraculously healed myself.