I’m tired, I’m running a fever, and I need a break but I won’t give myself one.
I’m so fed up with myself. I hate this self-doubt, this lack of self awareness. I can’t even tell when I’m doing a good or bad job anymore, because I’m unsure of my capabilities and I don’t know if I’m working hard enough.
And I hate to think I am weak and falling sick, because my falling ill somehow doesn’t seem justified! Its like, okay, Libby, its fine to take an MC since you’ve been producing enough stories, just rest well and we’ll pick it up next week. But I feel like I’m not doing enough. My weeks are starting to manifest themselves as productivity lists, where I mentally catalogue the number of stories I have done and how many I missed, or how many more I should have been able to bring to the table.
Teething pains, I tell myself. I really hope I will soon be able to adjust to the new momentums and expectations of working life, that soon I can start to see my job as a career and not just a job.
The worst part of it all is that I’m becoming an emotional eater and spender. My money flies out of the bank on random frivolous shopping sprees that make me feel better for all of one day before I am consumed with guilt at my unnecessary expenditure. Did I really need that new Balenciaga clutch?
I keep stuffing myself with food so I can reach a comfortable stupor wherein all my energies become focused on pure digestion. Truffle Butter Mushroom Fettucine, Kimchi Ramyun, Japanese Mochi, Le Cafe Pineapple tarts, I am disgusted with my guilt-fueled appetite – I might have already put on all the weight I had such a hard time losing.
OMG I hate myself!!