It’s only 7:35 a.m., but it feels like I’ve already lived a whole day. Lately, sleep and I are not on speaking terms. Normally, I’d be an early riser at 5 a.m., but now I’m waking up at 3 a.m. like some kind of haunted rooster. I try to fall back asleep, but I just end up staring at the ceiling, struggling and bargaining with my brain. Some nights it’s neuropathy keeping me awake, other nights it’s… well, who even knows.
Out of desperation, I bought ZzzQuil yesterday, hoping for some magical knockout. It worked—until 3 a.m. Then I was right back up, except this time my blood sugar had dropped to 50. So, I guess that bottle wasn’t a total waste, but it sure wasn’t the miracle I needed.
And the timing couldn’t be worse. Not only am I starting school soon, but I’m also testing out a new job I’m ridiculously excited about: working as an assistant at a chiropractic office. Out of all the jobs I’ve applied for, this is the one I’ve wanted the most. It’s a smaller office with a limited staff, which I actually love, and the hours are wacky—but honestly, so am I. Sleep deprivation, though? That’s going to make things miserable if I can’t get it under control.
Meanwhile, our house has been hit with what can only be described as a stomach plague. It started with the kids (of course), then slowly made its way around like an unwanted houseguest that refuses to leave. Every day it’s been a new victim. The sound effects in this house lately have not been cute.
As if that wasn’t enough chaos, I’ve also been on a major Judge Judy kick. That woman is an icon, a legend, and the reason I now want to end all my sentences with “Baloney!” She’s sharp, she’s tough, and she does it all with style. Honestly, if I could channel even 10% of her energy, I’d be unstoppable.
Speaking of style—or lack thereof—I had to buy scrubs yesterday for this new job. You’d think finding a pair in XS would be simple, but apparently not. It’s like they’re made in mythical quantities, hidden on the top shelf in the back of the store, guarded by a dragon. By the time I finally found a pair, I felt like I’d won The Amazing Race: Healthcare Edition.
And because life enjoys piling it on, let’s not forget my diabetes. After years of being unmanaged, I’m finally taking steps to control it. I’ve been sober for almost 7 months (huge win), but instead of feeling amazing, I just realized how sick I’ve actually been this whole time. My weight plummeted from 145 lbs. to 103 lbs., I have zero appetite, and my doctor has me chugging four protein shakes a day at $10 a pack. At that price, I should at least get a sticker or a prize inside.
Then there’s the neuropathy—the meds help enough that I actually walked barefoot in the grass for the first time in YEARS, but I still get zapped by lightning bolts of pain if so much as a blanket grazes my legs. It’s like my nerves are trying to electrocute me in my sleep.
Oh, and I can’t forget my temporary ride: my 89-year-old grandfather’s H2 Hummer. For the last two weeks, it’s been my main mode of transportation while my van is in the shop. Don’t get me wrong, it’s hilarious fun. Nothing beats the look on the faces of “big truck guys” when my 5’4” self jumps down out of this beast. But as much fun as it is, I miss the speed and nimbleness of my van. The Hummer makes me feel like I should be chewing beef jerky and yelling at traffic like a drill sergeant.
So here I am: sleep-deprived, diabetic, sore, tiny-but-mighty in a giant truck, wrapped up in a household stomach apocalypse, rocking XS scrubs, and binge-watching Judge Judy. Somehow still hopeful. Somehow still pushing forward. And maybe, just maybe, tonight I’ll sleep past 3 a.m.
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