The Americano Life

Disclaimer:

When I write tired, my filter vanishes.  That being said, those that know me, or don’t know me, please don’t worry, or pity me.  I think that, as abnormal as my life may be, I’m talking normal fears, normal reactions, normal struggles.  Every one struggles in life at certain points, I just happen to throw my flailing into the world for all to see.  Enjoy.

The Americano Life

I started drinking Americanos, on ice.  Partly because the  bitter espresso, topped off with a splash of soy milk, is cheaper than its sibling, soy latte, and partly because my body needs an intense jolt of caffeine, at regular, or irregular intervals, throughout the day.  And night.

I’m not sleeping, at least not enough, and coffee is my survival tactic.  It’s no longer my leisurely morning treat, sitting at a cafe, nursing a cappuccino, as I tap out, on my laptop, the cons and faux pas of the flight attendant life.  Caffeine is simply a necessity, a necessary evil, to combat the evils of flight delays, and living in a crashpad.

I don’t feel healthy.  I feel worn out, and worn down.  In some ways, many ways, flying has been a healthy life change for me.  In many ways, it has been a healthy lifestyle killer.  I’m normal in ways that I once wasn’t, but so abnormal in others.

Time zones have little meaning.  My body doesn’t understand that certain hours of the day mean wake up, certain hours mean eat food, certain hours mean sleep.  It just functions. Operates, craving a night without interrupted sleep.  Craving a day where my main food groups aren’t Snack Pack A, B, or C.

Wanted are sugar laced foods.  I’ve gained 20lbs since I started this job five years ago, 10lbs that needed to be added, and now, a healthy 10lb buffer, what I like to call a hospital cushion, “in case of emergencies.”  I still get comments that I’m little.  I wish I was there to see me when I was ‘little’, because if that is the definition of me now, all I have to say is an eyes wide, “Wow,” with an Uh-Oh sort of inflection.

Today, I have the fat reserves that a woman is supposed to have; a healthful thin.  It’s good, although I don’t see it as such.  But I allow it, and, on the best days, I appreciate it.  Considering the alternative, I’d rather enjoy the chocolate chip cookie, than be the thinest girl, falling apart because of seeing the chocolate chip cookie.  I’m falling apart for other reasons.  I would consider this progress.

The current state of sleep deprivation, is causing the falling apart, along with a dose of broken heart.  Sleepless nights were familiar once, but not because of needing to stay bright-eyed during an unplanned red-eye (I’ve had too many of those recently).  The dull ache of a tummy needing nourishment, and the quick beats of a palpitating heart, would wake me, comfort me, continually remind me that I wasn’t ok. Continually remind me that if I felt this way, I would not have to fear.  I would stay skinny.

I felt crazy then.  I hated the crazy.  I remember wanting to just turn off, unplug, and return different.  I didn’t know how I had lost my way, but I had.  I didn’t know how to find my way back.  I feel crazy now.  I want to turn off, unplug, return better.  Different.  I’ve lost my way, maybe not to such an extreme, but enough that I scare myself.  Today, I’m not ok.  I’m tired.  I’m fuzzy, and I need a hug.

There are many ways to be not ok.  I told my Sybil yesterday, when she said, “Honey, I’ve never seen you like this before,” that, I feel like I should cry, because that is my usual go to, but I can’t even handle accomplishing that right now.  I’m too tired to cry.  Coffee, drugs, liquor, food, travel, or [fill in the blank] are always poor substitutes for the old fashion cure of rest.

Sybil wants me to be happy.  I want that too.  I think that I am.  I feel that I am, or mostly so.  I ask her if she doesn’t think that I am.  “No.  You are Kara.  You are happy wherever you go.  All you need to do right now is sleep.”  So, I’m making no plans this week.  Except sleep.  Sleep for days.