For the first time in quite awhile, I feel...
Suuure, I've felt sad, happy, anxious, paranoid, homesick, lonely,
excited... bloated... (haha) the list goes on.
But it's been probably a year or more since I've just felt out-and-out
I associate Jackie-the-stress-fetus with university. The days when I
didn't think I was capable of making that phone call that was essential
to my week's journalism assignment. When the prospect of 15-page papers
made me shake... and then I'd get so cracked out on tea that the shaking
was no longer from the nerves, but from the caffeine high. When I'd
watch hour after hour of Scrubs to numb my brain, to make me forget how
MUCH work I had to do.
But at least then I had my room mates who were dealing with exactly the
same thing. And, you know, misery loves company.
Right now, I'm just ... I just... feel soooo not capable of handling
all this. It just seems like too much to do, too little time, with too
little resources. I know I want to do it. I know it's a great
opportunity, but I don't know if I'm CAPABLE.
It's just at this point where it's not even "there's not enough hours
in the day"... but more "I just want to go home, lay in bed, beneath the
covers... give into the fetus-me, and let my brain become mush and just
not deal with everything I have to do." It's not that I don't have the
TIME to do everything, it's that I'm so preoccupied with freaking out
about it all, that I can't focus and get anything done.
It's just... it's just a matter of too many projects. I really think
I'm just working on too many little things at once. And my sanity is
seriously going to be the one that loses out.
I just don't know where to start anymore. I'm working on so many
different stories, all of which are missing pieces. And all of them have
the potential to be really good... but I just can't finish them. So they
loom over me, and I end up looking like a crap-tastic journalist who
can't crack a story. And maybe I am. I don't know.
And it's not just work. My house is a mess. And just the thought of
making a dent in that pigsty makes me want to hide in the corner,
forming a cross with my loyal bottle of Mr.Clean and Febreeze. *baaaack
vile creature! baaaaack!*
Then there's this curling thing, and the Spark story, Christmas
shopping, work truck drama, the skidoo-stuck-in-the-box, and the fact
that for some reason I seem to be much less articulate than usual ...
leaving me sounding like a bumbling idiot to the ears of my producers,
editors, interviewees, coworkers, RCMP, and blog readers.
I really think I need an epiphany shower*.