I’m burnt out.
The feeling hit Tuesday for no real reason, when, all of a sudden, I realized that my to-do list was as long as Gone With the Wind. I alternated between being so tired I couldn’t stare at my computer screen any longer and being so stressed that it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest (OK, I’m probably exaggerating on that one).
Day after day, I told Mike that I had too much on my plate. He responded helpfully, with a hug or a suggestion on how to limit the stress. One day, while
just piling everything in the sink cleaning the kitchen, I became especially dramatic. “All I’m doing is rushing around. I’m just going to feel this way forever. And then I’m going to retire and then I’m probably going to die,” I said. He nodded and didn’t say anything, but I saw the “OK, now you’re going crazy” look in his eyes.
The worst part: I only worked three days this week at the News, and I did fun things too. I watched The West Wing (my current Netflix obsession) and saw baby girl. I also spent a glorious five hours hitting a small, white, impossible-to-find ball into the woods and some ponds.
I wasn’t working every second of every day. I was just thinking about work every second of every day, which felt just as exhausting.
When I was out on the golf course, I was also setting interviews up for the next day at work. When I was making dinner for my brother and his wife Thursday, I was simultaneously reading articles about an upcoming freelance project. And when I was trying to relax and watch Four Weddings (I’m a sucker for some bad TV), I was working on a cover letter.
I kind of lost my mind. I was so out of it that I poured water on my cereal instead of milk.
So I’ve welcomed the weekend with open arms. I will sleep. Other than the few hours I will set aside for work, I will clear my mind and regain my sanity. I will not worry if I am “doing enough.”
And I’ll even pour milk on my cereal.