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A Bitch Stressed

Who knew a little bit of stress could turn Sally Sampson into an even bigger bitch?

I’m not going to go on for too long with my rant this week. This is for a number of reasons, but mainly because I am tired and stressed as fuck. As the week winds down, not only am I exhausted, in the general sense of course, but I’m also super weary! Not of just anything in particular, but of myself. I’m so fucking sick to death of me!

And I know, for a fact, I’m not alone in this self-hatred. Multiple members of my family and friends have all been incessantly worrying this week, and asking me for anti-stress advice because they’ve literally hit a brick wall and their happy pills are no longer working. One friend has been fretting about the irregularity of her menstrual cycle (Don’t worry honey, these things happen! No, you’re probably neither pregnant nor struggling with ovarian cancer), the other is freaking out over a relationship that isn’t going anywhere (Will you fucking dump him already? He’s a fucking douche!), and my mum, as usual, has been losing her shit over absolutely everything this week (Mum, I think we should see other people…)

The thing is I talk constantly…when I’m not talking to anyone, I’m talking to myself. I talk to myself in my sleep (not aloud thankfully), I talk to myself while I get dressed, I’m even talking to myself as I write this. And I’m not always saying good things either. Like many, the more my levels of exhaustion increase, the more those voices become more negative and the more they push me towards an anxiety-packed life, fuelled and propelled forward only by the magic of Xanax.

And usually I can handle it. Usually, my insane dedication and my ‘how can we turn this around?’ mentality is able to counteract the insanity, but recently, I’m just absolutely worn-out. This past week in particular, I’ve just become more and more desperate, seeking silence and inner peace with such diligence and perseverance that the Dalai Lama would be proud. But, alas, despite my efforts, my head has been less like a quiet peaceful mountaintop and far more like a Rocky Horror Picture showing:  full of drunk, jacked-up college kids, fully made-up in drag, being as loud as fuck and vomiting everywhere (metaphorically speaking…sorta!)

And in despondency, (and after I’d listened to the song Sweet Transvestite about a million times,wearing an outfit that would’ve made Lady Gaga jealous) I decided to pull out all the stops to try to still the inner volcano from brewing. I even considered legging a one way trip to India (that’s where everyone goes in movies to find themselves, isn’t it?) with nothing but a backpack, an insatiable curiosity for life and some pepper spray (you can never be too sure)!

But, as fun as it was for about 30 minutes pretending to be Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love, once I got my feet back on the ground and the fairy dust had worn off, (checking your bank balance will usually do that to you…), I decided to do some brainstorming and pro-actively sort things out!

The following is an account of what ensued:

I decided that it was in my hands, and in no others’, to sort my own fucking head out. So laying off the Xanax and the gazillion cups of coffee I consume daily, I sat in my room in the traditional cross-legged meditation position, took a deep breath, closed my eyes and waited. I guess I was waiting for divine inspiration or at the very least inspiration - I was happy to debate the source later on - but all that I got in that minute and a half that I sat there, with some cheap Enya cover music playing in the background, was dizzy.

Opening my eyes, I looked straight ahead of me. My eyes were met with the view of the big gaping hole in the middle of my bedroom door, where my sister had once chosen to take the higher road after a fight with my parents and instead of punching the shit out of their faces, had decided that she was the Karate Kid and had channelled her anger by putting her knee through my door. It’s not quite the same as having a sunny meadow with the odd grazing cow scattered here and there before your eyes, but hey!  

So I got up, turned off the music which was still playing and getting on my last nerve, and I promptly decided that what I needed to do was make myself a cup of relaxation tea (some herbal concoction infused with berries and essence of pixie dust) and get some sleep. Ten minutes later, I had poured the tea down the drain because a horse’s ass tasted better, I had turned the air conditioning on and I had curled up in my bed, trying to block out the sound of my family fighting outside (I had warned my sister this time to find another door to practice her Xena, Warrior Princess moves on)!!!

Not four seconds later, however, I screamed ‘SHIT!!’ and leapt out of bed. I realised that I had not finished some work that needed to be done earlier that day and so, unwillingly, I ran out and found myself caught in the middle of a warzone, with both parties (my parents on one end and my sister on the other) trying to sway me to take their sides in the argument. Barely keeping my shit, I insisted on being Switzerland, however, and steadily shuffled like a zombie towards my laptop, telling myself that the sooner I got my work done, the sooner I could fucking start to relax.

There at my computer, however, another quarrel began to break out because, as my youngest sister took the liberty to explain to me, she felt that her Twitter friends and social life were more important than my ‘work and shit!’ It was amazing how easy it was for me, in that moment, to go from being Switzerland to being Nazi Germany. I’m not proud of it (well, a little…), but after threatening to turn my sister’s digestive tract inside out, she got the hint that the girl with the blood-shot, half-closed eyes, the un-brushed hair and the flared nostrils was only a shadow of the sister she once knew and loved and scared for her life, she shuffled away taking her Twitter friends and social life with her.

Hours later, I was ready for bed. I went into my room, at last, lay down and put the pillow over my head, after looking at my phone and realising that I only had about two and half hours to go before I had to wake up to get ready for work. It was in that moment that I discovered a throbbing that I had never felt before. I’m not a doctor, but judging from the pain that pulsated through my body, I was able to make out that I have a vein that starts in my forehead, goes round the curvature of my head, reaches down my spine and stops near my asshole. I know…fun right?

Nevertheless, choosing not to dwell on it, and as things began to go hazy, I happily started to fade away, spiralling down into the fogginess that comes with sinking blissfully into the land of dreams. Then gradually and unexpectedly, words started to form in my innermost being, slowly brewing from the mists of my distorted reveries. The words were incomprehensible, but they were potent enough to steadily cut through the cloud surrounding me, reaching out, wanting me to understand their message. Could this be the inspiration that I had sought earlier? I didn’t have time to ponder this for too long because quickly, the words began to take form; I realised the apparition was singing… I wanted to know what words of wisdom, what guidance was coming from the depths of my subconscious or perhaps from a greater power altogether! I had to get there; I had to know the meaning of the song being sung by the magical siren.

And then suddenly, it was crystal clear:

‘STARSHIPS WERE MEANT TO FLY! HANDS UP AND TOUCH THE SKY!!! CAN’T STOP CUZ WE’RE SO HIGH. LET’S DO THIS ONE MORE TIME!’

My eyes shot open and I’m pretty sure I shed a tear or two. Looking at my phone again, I realised I only had half an hour to go before I had to wake up.

And that was SUNDAY! I still had another four days of madness to go…

You’ll be pleased to know that my mind since has turned into utter mush! In a conversation with a British friend on Thursday, I was no longer able to differentiate between Arabic and English and I kept speaking to him in a mixture of both languages, trying to desperately work out why he was having difficulty understanding me.

I can barely form sentences (it’s taken me about 8 hours to write this post) and I’ve pretty much turned sarcasm into a language, with its own dictionary of dry double-meanings and a cutting edge thesaurus of put-downs to accompany it.

And if I don’t get some sleep soon, I’m pretty sure I’m going to end up on the news for doing something like attempting to stick a cactus up someone’s behind in an effort to teach them just what it feels like to be able to get a blood pressure reading off an incessant throbbing in their assholes.

You have now been warned so I’ll go now.

PS. Nicki Minaj if I ever run into you and there’s a cactus nearby… Girl, you better run because I’m going to make damn sure I return the favour and give you many sleepless nights as well! That is all!


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