Previous Life

   I mentioned in another post that I thought I had talked about what I used to do. Evidently, I never posted this... it's long, so if you give me the TL;DR, I'll understand. 

   And then I'll come to your house and cut you, you ungrateful harlot. 

   Why yes, Elegance is my middle name. Why do you ask?

 If you check the FAQ, you'll see that I don't divulge information on where I was previously employed. It's not that I don't want to write a tell-all about the shenanigans that go on behind the scenes at a place like that, but I have a lot of respect for the directors and the facility itself. I can't bring myself to completely throw the good people under the bus along with the handful of asshats responsible for my, shall we say, 'abrupt departure'.

   However, I can tell you some of what it was that I did.

   My title was 'Department Manager'. I handled hiring, firing and discipline of the staff, scheduling, finance, purchasing, contracts, creating new business, communication and coordination with other departments, creating programming, web design, budgeting and general upkeep and repair of a building that was - almost literally - falling down.

   That's just what was in my job description. I did a lot more than that on a day-to-day basis. Most of the time, I was the first person in every morning, and one of the last to leave. I had a serious need to be on top of things. Mainly because I loved the place so much. I don't say that lightly. I love very few things. I love OldMan and LovelyGirl, the rest of the family, the dog, and that job. I wanted it to be successful in every possible aspect. Any time anything went awry, I felt like it reflected poorly on me personally. In my heart and head, I know that wasn't a reasonable response, but it's the way I operate. If I'm responsible for something, if my name is attached somewhere, I want it to be good. Great, even. I never want someone to tie me to something less than awesome. If I'm involved, I need it to be amazing.

I get it from my dad.



   I got up every morning, had a shower, got dressed and tore ass into work. I was excited about going in. I couldn't wait to see what would happen every single day. I've had several jobs in my life and with every other one, at some point, you find yourself laying in bed doing a mental body scan to see if there's anything wrong enough to justify a sick day. Vague pain in your elbow? Call those bitches and tell 'em to suck it. In a sad, hoarse little voice, of course. Not here. I hated sick days. I hated not being there, not being in the middle of things, fixing problems, soothing egos, creating something awesome EVERY.SINGLE.DAMN.DAY! It was my life. And I was SO good at it. I could put out three fires, hire four part time people for six different jobs and program circles around our IT department.

   I say all of that to impress upon you, Darling Reader, that walking out was not a choice I made lightly. Also, it wasn't like I just hit my limit one day and walked out. There was discussion and many attempts at rectifying the issues that were affecting me. OldMan had been trying to get me to leave for months. LovelyGirl, at the ripe old age of about fifteen even tried to tell me I needed to get out.

   I don't know when I really started to notice that things were going bad. Up to the very last day, I was still excited about going in, still committed to doing great things, still loved it. I should have clued in two summers ago when I started having what the family refers to as "stomach issues". Folks, that's simply a nice way to say my guts were good and fuckered.

   I woke up every morning at some obscene hour to puke and lay in the bathroom floor for awhile. It didn't matter what I'd eaten or had to drink (which was usually a lot - ah! another clue!) I could have eaten Indian food and drank a fifth of vodka or had a saltine and a glass of tepid water, and shortly before my alarm went off, I'd be dashing to the smallest room in our house. OldMan was convinced I was pregnant, regardless of the fact that we're both ill-equipped to reproduce again.

   A visit to every gastroenterologist in the area produced inconclusive results. No one could figure out what the hell was wrong with me. I had every 'scopy you could imagine, was poked, prodded, probed and made to drink some very, very nasty things. My diet was altered and for almost two years, I was told it would be a good idea if I lay off the sauce.

WHAT?!

Ugh.

Alright, anything to make the morning vom session end.

Except, it didn't. I was still sick most days and had severe stomach cramps and pain. It wasn't until we were going on a vacation that required a flight that my (wonderfulamazingperfect) doctor and I came to the realization that my issue wasn't physical.

I hate to fly. HATE!! TO!! FLY!! I love to travel, but hate to fly. I'd rather walk. Or be dragged. As long as it's on the ground. Flying produces major issues with me. I'm fine until right before we leave for the airport.
What do you think happens?

Yep.
Vom session. Every time.

So, being proactive, I went to the doctor and explained the situation and asked what I should do. He looked back over my history, raised his eyebrows, looked at the files from the other doctors I'd seen, grinned like the damn Cheshire cat, and said one magical word.

Xanax.


                                       to be continued...