Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Appearance is everything. Is that the message I carried out of my parents' home? As I stack up the papers and transparencies, workbooks and notes that have obscured the top of my desk since school began four weeks ago, I wonder. I carry the detritus of the last month across the room and throw it onto a cabinet shelf. At least my aide will have something to do on Friday, I muse. And the sub will have a clean desk to work from tomorrow. Because I'm not coming back, at least not for twenty-four hours.

Oh, it's legitimate. I have at least one doctor's appointment, maybe two, a full-blown migraine in progress despite the daily meds that should make that impossible, and 7.6 weeks of sick time at my disposal. I wouldn't feel guilty if I didn't realize I've brought it on myself. Do the right thing even if it kills ya: that's really what the younger me learned. I look at the classroom clock, read 7:30 for the second time that day, and wish some time management skills had been included in those life lessons.

As much as I am enjoying my job, as much as I'm glad to be here, what I'm doing is not really sustainable. It's not that I'm really working so hard--hell, it's not even midterm. But it takes a while to get home, to have a family and life, and then, suddenly, it's late. So very. Which feels just fine, given my own rhythms, but the alarm goes off at 4:45. You can see the problem here, can't you?

Normally, I'd just soldier on, but my brain called me on it this time, in front of my class, and then later, in front of some teachers. Aura, seizure, spell, whatever. Panic. Breakdown. Mortification. There's a word. You're overwhelmed, says my counselor friend. Ask for help. Oh, no. I think I can do it, really. I can. But first, I've just got to sleep.