My hands hurt. Noah massaged my arms last night and commented that they feel like guitar strings. My two hour massage yesterday concentrated on my jammed ribs/clavicle/sternum and didn’t get to anything else because it took so long to break through the knots fucking those connections up.
The corset is not fully the solution to my problems. Shit.
My massage therapist says that until the tile work is over maybe I can sneak in and see her twice a week. Sure. Sounds great. I feel like shit.
Tile guy is not happy about me taking Friday’s off for medical appointments. That’s too damn bad. He also spends a lot of time commenting on how I don’t look so good and he’s worried about me. But I should work more!
I’m deeply conflicted about a thing that’s going on. But I can’t do anything about it. So I’m just kinda trying to put it out of my mind. Do you know how good I am at that? Not good. Not good at all.
Today the babysitter is here for five hours. I’m going to ask her to help the kids with painting the closet in the playroom. I’ll help too… but having two grown ups around makes the process SO MUCH EASIER that I’m going to do the last painting push with help. I’m being S_M_R_T. Once that painting is done (and it dries) I can move all the toys back into the playroom and get the grown up work materials out of there. That will be a glorious day.
I’m probably going to need to send the construction company owner an email about tile guy scheduling because I’m pissy that he keeps telling me I’ll have more help then I don’t then a guy shows up by surprise then doesn’t come back when he says and… that’s totally fucking with my prep. That’s not cool. I’m going to write a detailed explanation of how many hours past the 8 hours/day I’m working to support this crew and how fucked up it is to jerk me around.
I’m working 10-14 hour days. It’s not cool to tell me to prep for something then it doesn’t happen. That’s fucked up. That’s not fair. I’m fucking tired. I hurt.
Because then the hours I spent prepping for something that isn’t going to happen are wasted hours and I could have been more useful to the guy who is actually here. That’s not cool. Then the guy who is here slows down to a crawl as I try to scramble to properly assist him. It sucks for everyone involved. I need predictable staffing.
Wrote an email. We’ll see how this goes.
My body needs this project to end. I’m exhausted. This is end-of-the-road-trip level pain and I think I’m only like 10% done with the tile. I think I’m like 25% done with the painting. Feck.
Personally I like this pain scale. I’ve been fighting off pain induced nausea for days. That means I’m hanging around 6-8 on the scale. That sucks.
I don’t think it is healthy, normal, or “appropriate” that someone with the kind of chronic pain I have continues to work the way I do. I think that is a sign of my overall mental health problems and inability to prioritize myself.
I’m not built for doing the kinds of work I do. I don’t let that slow me down very much and I’m pretty sure that is a bad thing. My body hurts to tell me to stop and I just flat out refuse to listen. This can’t be healthy.
Noah rebuked me appropriately last night. I know the kids want to go to Japan this year. I know my friend invited me to Alaska and I want to see my friend and and and….
I need a no travel year. I’m so weary. I’m in so much pain. I need to save the fucking money. Whine.
Looking at Mint this morning turned my stomach. Paying for the remodel continues to suck. I am rather grateful that I only include a fraction of Noah’s income in our budget. That way when I go over it isn’t as catastrophic. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.
Stop typing, Krissy.
I’m exhausted and weary and completely bored. I hate this state of mind.