āIām exhausted,ā I say, as I try to hold back these ridiculous tears. I shouldnāt even be crying. You arenāt mad at me, you arenāt yelling at me.
But so many have before, echoing the voice in my head that whispers youāre not worth it, this is all your fault.
āSo am I,ā you say, trying to comfort me.
The tears only come harder.
Because youāre not, not like this, not this bone-deep exhaustion that never ends.Ā
Or maybe Iām just weak.
Iāve been tired for two months.Ā
āAre you not able to sleep?ā
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, Iāve done nothing but work and then sleep. Iāve done a few dishes now and then, but I forgot to pay my bills. Or pick up my meds. Iām not even sure I have food to pack for tomorrow. But Iāve made it to work, smiled at my students, pretended I was fine. Thatās what I have to do.
My body just doesnāt know what to do with the sleep. It never resets, never heals, never fully replenishes what Iāve taken from it. I never feel rested. I never wake up feeling as if I actually slept.Ā
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 Iāve been desperately trying to hide, that you all finally realize that Iām just a disaster that doesnāt 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.
Thatās why Iām crying, really. Because I know, even if you donāt, that this is all my fault. Maybe you arenāt upset with me right now, but you should be. I havenāt tried hard enough, havenāt applied myself enough, havenāt done the right things. If I would just stop goofing off, stop whining, stop complaining, stop being weak, this problem wouldnāt exist. You wouldnāt have cause to be frustrated. I know, because Iāve played this game before, so many times. Itās always my fault, and I swear Iām trying.
āYouāre just tired, thatās the exhaustion talking.ā
Iām aware of that. But you see the only voice that Iāve 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 itās been there for two months. I canāt hear anything else some days, especially right now. I went to sleep listening to it last night, I woke up with it this morning.Ā
It will still be talking tomorrow, although Iāll be a little better at ignoring it.
And thatās the worst part, really.
Iāll wake up tomorrow, put on my makeup and an outfit that looks remarkably cheery. Iāll plaster a smile on my face, and the most I might admit is that Iām tired. Thatās it. If you ask me for more, Iāll make a joke about it. Iāll hide behind this cursed optimism that never goes away. I wonāt tell you the truth, that I miss my friends, I miss writing, I miss cooking, I miss cleaning my apartment. Because tomorrow, Iāll be able to pretend that tonight is false, that this is just me being emotional, too sensitive, ridiculous.Ā
Tomorrow, I will send you an email apologizing for being hysterical. Iāll nod calmly at the coworker who awkwardly shuffled away while I cried. Iāll hope to heavens that my studentās father didnāt tell him about how his teacher had a breakdown. Iāll pray that my other coworker doesnāt ask about what he could barely hear over that conference call. If any of them ask, Iāll make a joke.
Iām a survivor. Iāll do whatever I have to do to survive. Iāll 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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