When I say I’m tired

…it’s because I’m spending an exorbitant amount of energy trying to be okay. Convincing myself to get dressed. To take a shower. To brush my hair and look like something. God I miss those days when finding the perfect outfit for a day or an event gave me a rush and a thrill instead of anxiety and discomfort. I try. I remember what it felt like and I try to recreate the moment for myself. I play the old familiar soundtrack to getting ready–Beyonce–and I take the requisite time for make up then hair the outfit then photos to make sure he outfit photographs as well as it wears. But the joy….it doesn’t come. 

Panic washes over me when someone asks how my day went. I recount my day of usual nothingness, maybe a few short hours spent writing or reading, and I tell them “okay”. Never bothering to mention how hard it was to sit down to write or the two pills it took to focus enough on my dissertation. The fears and irrational obsessions I have to push out of my mind for doctoral level coherent words. Nothing ever worth keeping. Nothing ever feeling up to par. 

My best friend doesn’t feel like my best friend anymore. All we do is trader anger or frustration. I don’t find peace in our conversations so I stopped talking because I’ve run out of storage for hurt. I don’t know when that gets repaired. I can’t even think beyond the nap my body is yearning and aching to take. 

Not even six and I’m in bed and can barely keep my eyes open. And all I did today was pretend. And all I’ll do tomorrow is the same. 

I keep hoping that if I just keep my spirits up and stay faithful that the fog will lift and when something good happens I will be able to feel it. Feel anything other than tired. Tired from having to simply exist. 

And I keep crying because I know this isn’t right. That it isn’t good to feel like this at all or so often. So persistently. But I’m too tired to continue through the maze. So for right now I’m just going to sleep. Hope upon hope that there’s rest at the end. 


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