I was starting to have that “feeling” again. It had come before this in little waves and slow trickles. I never really deal with it. I just saunter on, pushing forward, ever forward through life. There’s no other choice. I have kids to raise, a house to tend, and a marriage all of which take work to keep afloat. I have goals I want to accomplish and work that always seem to need me to accomplish it.
But I am tired.
Tired doesn’t seem like an adequate word to use when I describe exactly how I feel. Tired is where the discussion into how I’m feeling begins, but it doesn’t end there. It’s just the very tip of an iceberg larger than the Titanic and probably with the same disastrous results.
I’m fatigued. My body just isn’t recuperating the way it used to. I’ve tried supplements, exercise, dietary changes, and even switched doctors. I’ve choked down pills almost the size of a small child’s head (well that’s an exaggeration, but that’s how it felt going down), and instead of alleviating the symptoms or at least allowing my body to rest, I feel worse. Not being able to heal oneself is depressing, realizing this is going to be my forever state of continually decreasing health is equally taxing.
When it comes to the relationships in my life, I feel like I am running on empty. I’ve spent everything I have within me to give, and it all seems for naught. I have zero patience with my children, especially when it comes to their schoolwork. I’m beyond burnt out with that. I just don’t have the energy to chase them down and fight with them through both of our tears to get school work done. I’ve declared a moratorium on school work for the rest of the year for no other reason than I just can’t deal anymore. It’s for my children’s sanity as well as my own. If that makes me a bad mother, then get out the tar and feathers, I’ll gladly lay prostrate in the street to commence my punishment. I’m too exhausted to move anyway.
Most days, I don’t write. I rob away the energy and focus it would take to complete that task and push it toward something else. I play a board game with the kids or read books; I spend time with my spouse. All the while, when I’m robbing the energy bar from one aspect of my life and putting it toward another, I’m feeling guilty. Guilty that I’m not devoting enough time to my kids’ school work. Guilty that I’m not like those other moms that seem to be able to do everything from cooking meals from scratch, running around the playground with their kids, having a job, and taking care of their spouse. I used to be that woman. I am no longer that woman.
The fact that I am no longer that woman makes me angry. Angry with all the things I can no longer control. All I can do is rest, feel guilty, and search Google. I look for ideas on how to feel better. I search for some clue as to what to do about my life. Google tells me to take a vacation. “You need to get away for awhile and recharge,” it tells me. I imagine Google’s voice to be a smug middle-aged man with a slight tone. You know the tone I’m talking about, it’s the one you get when people get exasperated with you being sick all the time.
Like I don’t get sick of being sick all the time!
I’d like to be able just to go out and not have to worry about if it’s too hot or too cold for my body. I’d like to volunteer and not have to worry about what I have to do in the next two weeks because my body won’t be up to doing anything for a while. I want to be normal! But what Google doesn’t know is that a vacation won’t cure me. It’s highly unlikely that going away for a week to some destination will cure what ails me. Instead, I’ll come home feeling worse than when I left because my routine has been altered.
Instead of taking Google’s advice, I do what I’ve done for the last six years; I push through it. I ignore my body when it says to stay in bed and pull the covers over my head just to feel sorry for my current state of affairs. I pay no attention the pain in my arms when my body tells me you can’t wash your hair today, but I do it anyway. I tune out the pain in my legs while I stand to cook dinner. I evade the truth. I bury my head deeply in the sand so deep that I hope it will never come out again. I don’t want to see what I’ve become.