Last weekend, I began working 7 days a week. I thought it would be the hardest thing I had ever done. And the first week, as I complained and grumbled about working 7 days, it was rough. I was tired. I did not want to go any day this week. I didn’t want to go to either of my jobs. I craved time with my friends, but kept remembering I don’t really have friends here. With each and every passing day, I missed my friends back home more and more.

This weekend is better. Although I did wake up yesterday and today slightly confused and had to remember what day of the week it was in order to get out of bed, it has been better. I’m forcing myself to think more positively. I’m forcing myself to remember that working the extra 2 days means having more money. It means having more freedom. It means being able to survive longer before finding a new job in Pennsylvania becomes absolutely necessary. It buys me more time in the long run.

I’m forcing myself to get things done on the weekend. Anything I can done while at my second job, I get done. I’ve worked on planning for an essential oil make and take. I’ve worked on making sure lesson plans are done. I’ve caught up on things I wanted to watch on Netflix. I’ve written out my budget. I am trying to be as productive as possible and use my time more wisely.

Making the best of things is the only way I’m going to get through the next several weeks, and I’m determined to make them the best they can be.

In all reality, working 7 days a week is probably the best thing for me. It leaves me very little time to lay in bed and let my depression get the best of me. It leaves me very little time to overthink every little thing. It forces me to get out of bed every morning. And although, I’d love just one morning to sleep in, getting up is the better option.

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