It feels ungrateful to admit how fucking exhausted I am. Because there was a time I prayed for the life I have now. When, deep in the throes of depression, I pleaded with whatever gods were listening to pull me from under the crushing weight of a job that wasn’t going anywhere, codependent relationships, inequitable friendships. I prayed for exactly what I received, down to the things I didn’t know how to articulate, so instead I gave the way I wanted to feel over to the universe and said, “That.”
And it delivered. In a big way. My life is exactly what I needed, what I craved. I do challenging work that I love and that I’m good at with people I adore for a boss that actually gives a damn about me as a person. My friends take me to task and love on me in equal measure. My family is as crazy as it’s always been but everyone is healthy and here. When I actually put forth an effort to date, the people who fill my time and my bed are (in general) worthy of my investment. I travel all the time, racking up miles that will pay for my next adventure. Hell, I even love my apartment.
But I’m so fucking tired.
Objectively, I realize the way that this life happened to me, the pace at which success and loss and heartbreak and change have crashed into each other in concussive waves would be a lot for anybody. The last few years feel cumulative, weights added to my back so slowly I didn’t even notice when I started to bend. Move. New job. Manipulation. Work. Politics. New job. Death. Lost friend. “Breakup.” Move. Death. Move. New job. But I feel weak for being worn out by it. Because aren’t we all working and trying to get financially stable and losing loved ones and getting our hearts broken and moving and making memories? This is just living, I tell me, frustrated with how tired I am. What is wrong with you?
And there is fear too. Fear that if I admit I need a break, that I am tired, that the universe will take away everything I’ve worked and asked for. That to be tired must mean I am ungrateful. It’s ridiculous, I know. I am human. Even I need a minute sometimes. And to take it means empowering me to be better equipped for the life I’ve asked for.
But in the quiet moments it feels like weakness. Like being exhausted must mean I am incapable. That I am letting people down.
How dare you be tired? I ask myself more often than I care to admit. How dare you be happy and comfortable and stable for the first time in your whole fucking life and need a break. This isn’t struggle. You’ve known struggle. You’ve known exhaustion. How dare you dishonor the misery you’ve lived through by being tired now.
And so I keep going. I keep pushing and doing and building to ease the burn of guilt. I know I should stop. But what if I lose?