“I’m exhausted,” I say, as I try to hold back these ridiculous tears. I shouldn’t even be crying. You aren’t mad at me, you aren’t yelling at me.
But so many have before, echoing the voice in my head that whispers you’re not worth it, this is all your fault.
“So am I,” you say, trying to comfort me.
The tears only come harder.
Because you’re not, not like this, not this bone-deep exhaustion that never ends.
I’ve been tired for two months.
“Are you not able to sleep?”
Oh no, I sleep. I go to bed on time, though for the past two months I go to bed as soon as I get home. For two months, I’ve done nothing but work and then sleep. I’ve done a few dishes now and then, but I forgot to pay my bills. Or pick up my meds. I’m not even sure I have food to pack for tomorrow. But I’ve made it to work, smiled at my students, pretended I was fine. That’s what I have to do.
My body just doesn’t know what to do with the sleep. It never resets, never heals, never fully replenishes what I’ve taken from it. I never feel rested. I never wake up feeling as if I actually slept.
The alarm goes off and I wonder if today will be the day that I am no longer able to push my body to do the things it needs to do. Will this be the day that I finally collapse, that you all finally see what I’ve been desperately trying to hide, that you all finally realize that I’m just a disaster that doesn’t belong here?
I live in perpetual fear of that day. When you finally confirm what my soul already knows, has already told me since I turned thirteen.
That’s why I’m crying, really. Because I know, even if you don’t, that this is all my fault. Maybe you aren’t upset with me right now, but you should be. I haven’t tried hard enough, haven’t applied myself enough, haven’t done the right things. If I would just stop goofing off, stop whining, stop complaining, stop being weak, this problem wouldn’t exist. You wouldn’t have cause to be frustrated. I know, because I’ve played this game before, so many times. It’s always my fault, and I swear I’m trying.
“You’re just tired, that’s the exhaustion talking.”
I’m aware of that. But you see the only voice that I’ve been able to hear for nearly two months now has been the exhaustion. It never goes away. Sometimes it screams at me, sometimes it whispers, but it’s been there for two months. I can’t hear anything else some days, especially right now. I went to sleep listening to it last night, I woke up with it this morning.
It will still be talking tomorrow, although I’ll be a little better at ignoring it.
And that’s the worst part, really.
I’ll wake up tomorrow, put on my makeup and an outfit that looks remarkably cheery. I’ll plaster a smile on my face, and the most I might admit is that I’m tired. That’s it. If you ask me for more, I’ll make a joke about it. I’ll hide behind this cursed optimism that never goes away. I won’t tell you the truth, that I miss my friends, I miss writing, I miss cooking, I miss cleaning my apartment. Because tomorrow, I’ll be able to pretend that tonight is false, that this is just me being emotional, too sensitive, ridiculous.
Tomorrow, I will send you an email apologizing for being hysterical. I’ll nod calmly at the coworker who awkwardly shuffled away while I cried. I’ll hope to heavens that my student’s father didn’t tell him about how his teacher had a breakdown. I’ll pray that my other coworker doesn’t ask about what he could barely hear over that conference call. If any of them ask, I’ll make a joke.
I’m a survivor. I’ll do whatever I have to do to survive. I’ll keep pushing until either my body gives up or the gods decide to let me succeed for once.
Every time this happens, I hope my body gives up. I grow weary of picking myself up again, and again, and again.
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