It feels heavy, like I overate, but also a bit nauseous, queasy.
When I’m like this, I don’t really have much of an appetite — the first sign that something is wrong because I always have an appetite.
I roll over and look at my phone.
The knot tightens.
It’s not something I ate, or an illness or injury.
It’s just part of the job.
Everyone is mad at me.
When you work in this field, pissing people off is an expected side effect. And as long as I’m pissing the right people off, I can sleep. I can eat.
But some weeks, you piss off the wrong people. The ones who don’t deserve it.
And it usually happens because you fucked up.
This is one of those weeks for me.
Additionally, I’m feuding with my mom, which makes things all the worse. (I’m pretty sure I’m at fault there, too.)
Everyone is mad at me.
I sigh a lot. I feel lethargic and mopey. My husband tries to give me a hug but physical touch falls at the bottom of my love language. What I really need is to eat, but again, I don’t have much of an appetite.
Brian has this refrain that he likes to parrot about what it’s like working as a journalist.
“Well, for one thing, we don’t make a lot of money. The hours are just terrible. But on the other hand, everybody hates us!”
Usually it’s not so bad. The trolls and the messages and the emails get read — trust me, I read every single one — and filed in their respective folders. They get logged away, compartmentalized so I’m able to move on.
But today it’s tougher. I’m not really asking for forgiveness or even kind words. This whole column may sound like a cry for help — “Oh, boo hoo, poor Sayaka”— but really it’s just nice to put things to paper. It’s my job.
So like every other week, I’ll write my stories, edit everyone’s pieces, lay out the paper.
And maybe, by next Monday, things will be better.
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