IntentionallyUntitled

The second set to go is all the things that are for me alone: coloring my hair and caring for my nails, washing clothes besides my work uniforms and a couple pairs of pajama pants, luxurious baths, updating my journal. Even making my bed is too hard. I'm not talking about making the covers neat; I mean putting sheets on the bed. I'll sleep on my mattress pad with a sheet over me, and hate myself for it. We go through drive-thrus for supper, or get something delivered. It's not good for my cholesterol or my kids' growing bodies, but it's better than hungry. The dishes have piled up so far we switch to plastic utensils, paper plates. Somewhere in progressing to step three, my work clothes get washed every other week, and I'm using fabric refresher like a lifeline.

Step three is where even work begins to collapse. I'm sick all the time, going to urgent care or my doctor to get a note, exaggerating symptoms and mentally begging "please see me! Please help me! I'm not waving; I'm drowning!" But I know no one is going to see, because I can't get the damn mask off my face enough to look like I need help.

I've been lucky so far in my life. I haven't gotten past this point. I've lost jobs and friends and family through the burnout, but I've always had somewhere to land.

Now there's no landing pad, though. There's no one to catch me, no one to take any of the weight off my shoulders. I drove myself to the emergency room last week, because there was no one available to help.

So I stopped trying to fight through. I went to my doctor and begged for her help.

Just two weeks off, a note to excuse me, a break while we try to figure out what's breaking down in my body. Time to come to terms with whatever is physically wrong while I rest and rescue my home. Please help me, please save me, please help me out of this cycle.

She agreed.