I tire easily.
It’s the developmental disability, the autism, the am-i-making-excuses thought train pulling up to What-if-i’m-faking-it Station.
Some days, I cry when I look at my reflection. Not out of pity, or despair, or anger.
It’s the exhaustion of pulling through the day. Of going to work and classes and smiling at my friends, acting happy, composed and perfectly able. Of coming home to dishes in the sink, overflowing laundry and hours of piled up online lessons.
It’s how each of these things take more than they have to. The dread that clenches around my heart whenever I try to rest- reminding me that I’ll fail that if I don’t work till I burn out, I’ll fail again.
It’s boundless optimism when the week starts and picking up the pieces on a Friday evening, It’s thinking this week will be different, this week I’ll succeed this week I’ll-
burnout, shut down, meltdown, crumble to a million pieces and try to hold each one as close as possible.
Because I can’t afford to lose another part of myself.
‘Ode To My End Of Week Burnout’ - @maoiell
