I am tired. “Tired?” you ask. Yeah, tired. “So go to bed earlier.”
Not that kind of tired. Well, not ONLY that kind of tired. Sure, I could stand a few more sleep cycles every night, but I don’t think it would make that much of a difference. And aside from that, going to bed earlier just means I’d have that much more time to lay awake chasing thoughts around in my head.
So physically tired is one thing. Yep, I’ve got that. Head nodding, eyes closing. Sure. Just not at night.
Tired of various things.
Tired of laundry. That’s pretty serious, because I actually really like doing laundry. Usually. Right now it just seems like there’s never any progress; there is always laundry in the hamper(s), there is always laundry in the dryer, there are always at least two baskets of clean clothes waiting to be put away. Too many clothes? Maybe.
Tired of being the one who has to enforce bedtime. Tired of having to ask the same questions over and over again: do you have any homework? did you brush your teeth? where is your coat? any reason these things are on the counter and not in the garbage? can you do the cat litter? Tired of things not being in the place I left them when I want to use them. Tired of being the only one who keeps track of what needs paying and when, and tired of feeling bad when it doesn’t get done.
Tired. Tired of feeling lost. Tired of feeling overwhelmed. Tired of never getting anything done because I’m doing 7 things at once. Tired of listening to broadcasters stumble over the same sentences over and over again. Tired of “Microsoft” calling me two to three times a week because my computer’s been sending them desperate messages. Tired of having too much stuff in the basement. Tired of people complaining that we have too much stuff but then turning around and giving me things. Sometimes I’m tired of being the person that knows things.
I’m getting tired of being up; being the one that smiles at everyone, the one that helps out, the one that buoys other people’s spirits. I’m tired of having great ideas for art, blog posts, poetry, etc., but having them when I’m asleep or in the shower or at the grocery store; no matter how neatly I write those ideas out in the empty space on the inside of my forehead, so I can just look up and read them later, they don’t stay. That surface is less like slate and more like cornstarch goop: solid while I’m working with it, painstakingly carving my thoughts onto that vast expanse, but turning to mush as soon as I finish, with all my words running into and over each other so as to be wholly unreadable.
I’m tired of missing people, dead or alive. I’m tired of not having anyone I can talk to, you know, other than the cat. I don’t tell the cat much, because I don’t completely trust her. My son is about to be 11 and I need to be the person he talks to, not the other way around. My partner has to talk/listen to people all day as well as having her own neuroses to deal with; by the time she gets home I’m too worn out anyway and she needs to chill. BFF? That’s a whole other story. Okay, cat it is.
Have I mentioned that I’m tired? Mentally, even spiritually, I guess. Weary. And I’m not sleeping all that well, either. I’m pretty tired of this post.