Like I’m Made of Paper. in Chapter 8 : Time to Heal

It’s half past seven on a Saturday morning. For once I wasn’t woken by the flashbacks and trauma. No, turns out that a 12 shift in a cohort room on the Gastro Ward was enough to push me from “Fucking Knackered” to “Actually Exhausted”. I fell into bed at 9pm last night and slept until 6-ish this morning, until my OCD reared its peevish little head, and what almighty existential crisis did it want to push me into on the only free day I have to have enjoyed a late lie? Folders; the amount of, the organisation of and the co-ordination of.
You have GOT to be fucking kidding me?!
I’m now trying to restrain myself from getting up and heading out to the supermarkets, from driving to the next town over to check out a couple of their shops; just to see if I’m able tolerate splitting the folder I currently have in to three. If there’s something “right” to make it easier, to make it tolerable. The thought alone is making me itch. I know I’m going to have to do this; my folder is fit to burst and we’re only a fortnight in to term, but all my resources are together. I don’t want them split. Especially when assignment season rolls back around.

If I go now, there’ll be minimal staff and no customers.

Christ on a bike, I’m so fucking weak.