Now is the winter of our discontent

I realized about a half hour ago that it is nearly January. I’ve a long history with January; this will be the twenty-seventh I face, and it is likely that it will try to kill me, as so many of its past brethren have attempted. Last year it nearly killed me with depression, though that depression did set in motion the spiral that led to my current job (which is trying to kill me.) I’ve only got this coming January to prove myself a worthwhile employee and get my productivity and documentation in line or I fear I will be let go. I’ve been having firing dreams again. Ironically, it was January in 2008 that I faced the same firing squad at my old job, where my productivity and documentation weren’t meeting the insanely high standards of the agency and I was facing the noose. It’s hard to always be at the top of your game when it’s hard to focus on anything other than your own internal agony…

I’ve been relatively free of depression since the addition of Wellbutrin to my regimen back in October. I have weepy moments, especially when I’m inundated with a lot, be it noise or family or whatever. I’ve noticed an uptick in my panic attacks again. If I’m doing well at work, they are far less, but that stress in the back of my mind makes it an inhospitable field of anxiety landmines.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll make it at all. I am occasionally amazed that I’m still here, especially when the irritating little thoughts are cropping up even more, when I’m having more panic attacks, and the horrifying nightmares make an appearance. I’m notoriously stubborn. I think it might be for a reason.

C’mon, January. Do your worst.


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