I am so mad over absolutely the dumbest thing, and I cannot stop being mad.
At work, we have usernames for our computer system. The username is a personal 3-character code that’s slapped on the end of your department’s 3-character code. Those 6 characters are the signature identifying every mark you make.
Over my weekend, the manager of my department’s usernames went in and reassigned all of the personal codes without warning. I’m sure someone knew he was making the change. I didn’t make the cut. Instead, I walked in on Thursday and went from being BLY to 1KT.
This is quite seriously the reason I have only slept two hours tonight, and woke up bawling.
The truth is, I feel violated by having this silly 3-character ID changed. For over a year, that has been the signature that identified the records I created and manipulated–records that are now part of training materials that are company-wide. Country-wide. Now, if someone else in my department is ever branded BLY, that person can take credit for a year of my life.
It’s vain. It shouldn’t matter, but it really, really does. I feel like I finally published my novels only to wake up and find my publisher put someone else’s name on the byline.
Funny. The post I’d intended for today was about how I cope with my mental crap with humor–other people’s humor, obviously, as I haven’t been able to find a way to laugh about my crap in a way that isn’t completely hollow and pathetic.
I love to laugh. I love when people make me laugh, and it’s so, so easy to do. In a lot of ways, it offsets how much I cry, which is far more than the average sentient monkey.
Yesterday turned out great. After all the nuttiness of the morning, I made it to work and jumped into a hectic 13-hour work day that ended with a goodbye happy hour for a coworker. Lots of laughs, so many laughs as people unwound. A few coworkers found out I’m a rookie beer snob, which only one or two knew before last night. Shots were ordered for the bosses, who tried to pawn them off until they came to rest, untouched, at the other end of the table.
Today, I saw the only friend I’ve seen in three weeks. We wandered home decor stores and imagined homes filled with our own furniture, our own tastes, our own families. We laughed over last decade’s clothes at a second-hand boutique. We scarfed down huge breakfasts at a chain diner.
I listened to a sketch comedy program on the radio that had me chuckling as insomnia kept me awake 4 hours past my bedtime. SImple, clean humor; the kind you might find in an Erma Bombeck book, or told in a church service to engage the worshipers.
And then I woke up two hours into my much-needed sleep, suddenly fretting over a username that won’t matter if I switch industries five years from now.
So much for humor. You know, I’ve been dealing with this for 9 years. When it was a self-diagnosed issue, I knew how to handle it (other than the deep end I visited a few months ago). Now that I’m on meds and in therapy, I’m actually having a harder time wrapping my mind around how unpredictable my moods are. Maybe I’m just more aware of how easily I’m swept into the undertow.
Tomorrow’s coping mechanism is more likely to be: water, 10 am meds, water, 10:01 am sleeping pill, water, read, 11 am sleep. I don’t know about Monday yet.