I just had an accident.
Not that kind of accident, you goofs. This kind of accident:
Butterfingers Petrilli attacks again.
I was trying to get the kitty food box from its place atop the fridge and I dropped it. After losing control of the box, I repeatedly tried to grab it again while in the air and of course ended up hurting my fingertips. Gaaaaaah
All in all, not a big deal, right? I mean, you scoop the food back into the container and that’s it. Kitty doesn’t even care her food was on the floor, after all.
Well, yes. Only that while I was sucking on my fingertips to make the pain stop, my scumbag brain decided to remind me that this is exactly why I can’t work in a lab anymore. The breaking of expensive lab equipment, the screwing up of reactions that use ridiculously highly priced reagents…. and all of a sudden, all I wanted to do was sit in a corner and cry.
Even as I type these words, my hands are all shaky, and the anxiety levels are high.
Writing [typing] seems to have a soothing effect so I’ll continue to do it despite the tremors.
The food container broke and there isn’t duct tape here (of course, the Canadian in me thinks of duct tape first of all) so I used a shoelace from one of Sid‘s old college steel-toe boots to fix it.
So yeah. Stupid anxiety. Stupid scumbag brain. Stupid Mental Illness.
This is perhaps why “normal” people have such a hard time understanding our trials. Why and how something so unimportant as dropping the kitty food container can act as a trigger that sends me into a full anxiety episode?
But I am so sad and still all I want to do is curl in bed and cry.
I miss the lab. I miss academia. I miss my research.
I certainly didn’t expect to be 45 and broke, relying only on my meager monthly disability cheque. I expected to be a full time professor, having a very rewarding – intellectually and otherwise, career in science.
Stop it, stupid scumbag brain.
Go to hell.
I have a good life. I am loved. I am safe. Nothing else matters.
I hate you, beautiful brain of mine