She told me, “I think the kind of tired you are can’t be fixed with sleep.” It didn’t stop me from trying. I couldn’t shake the nauseating recollection of the events that transpired one year ago, nor the turmoil that would follow in the days since. No tears, no breakdowns but a tiredness that would not let up. A hunger that was insatiable. And an ache in my body so deep I didn’t know if I needed a masseuse a chiropractor or church. Probably all of them. I didn’t have any other way of explaining how I felt except I hurt. I’m exhausted and I’m in pain.

Yet, the days must go on. The work must be done. I pushed through with the basics and told myself that would be enough for now. Looming deadlines threatened any thoughts of rest or exhale. I felt sick to my stomach. I was sensitive to everything again, smells made my head ache. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to do anything. I wish I didn’t remember; rather, I wish it never happened. But it did, and now I have to wonder how long I’ll hate the month of february.


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