Stress is a mess. Okay, I just wanted to rhyme that, but it didn't make much sense. I should say it can make a mess of me.
There's a huge, whiz-bang project going on at work that is (hopefully) going to come to fruition this weekend. I work in IT and this is a new business application that our team has been working on for many, many months now. There's been lots of testing and fine-tuning, and I haven't been able to afford the luxury of a sick day in a few weeks. There is too much to get done and I don't want to be the one to delay this thing (again) so I am putting forth as much effort and bravery as I can muster.
Unfortunately, I'm paying the price on weekends and evenings, when Don wants to spend time with me, but gets a tired, achy, fibro-foggy bundle of blah instead. I spent some quality time with Don last Saturday, sipping delicious beers at our favorite watering hole. However, Sunday was pretty much breakfast together and then my collapsing onto the sofa with a feverish headache and feeling incredibly worn out. Don was nicely productive and did thousands of chores and things that needed doing. I had to make Sunday my sick day.
Well, enough boo-hooing about this, I guess. I try to remember, as I drag myself into the office each day, that I am glad I am employed and can actually still hold down a job in my condition. I know many fibromites are not working because they are essentially disabled, and in turn, broke. It's adding insult to injury that the sick also have to be poor because of the way our health system is structured right now. I have hope that someday, things will improve.
In the meantime, I am trying to get it all done and hope it's all worth it when the project is launched.