Tired of Tired

I'm tired.

I'm tired of not appreciating enough the only job that will have me. I'm tired of not having money. I'm tired of working too hard to make the career I DO want for myself. I'm tired of being told "sometimes you have to do things in life you don't want to do," just to turn around and alternatively be told "life's too short, so do what you love." I'm tired of asking for help and not getting any. I'm tired of being told to ask for help after I've already asked. I'm tired of busting my ass to make an occupation I love and getting door after door slammed in my face. I'm tired of people telling me "you must not be working hard enough, then."

I'm tired.

I'm tired of feeling anxious and worried all the time. I'm tired of explaining those things stem from illness. I'm tired of explaining that yes, mental illness is real. I'm tired of feeling sick all the time. I'm tired of doctors telling me I'm okay when I feel so distinctly un-okay. I'm tired of feeling fatigue on 3 or 8 or 10 hours of sleep. I'm tired of internally hating my sicknesses when I love my self and my body so much. I'm tired of being told to walk it off, work through it, get over it. I'm tired of searching for a solution and finding the same old lines fed to me by professionals who haven't ever had their mind and body fighting against them. I'm tired of not getting to enjoy life because I'm bound by invisible chains of pain.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of being the last one. I'm tired of being a best friend, but not THE best friend. I'm tired of being alone and lonely, one or the other or both. I'm tired of waiting in the wings. I'm tired of putting myself out there too often, too far. I'm tired of having to go back into hiding. I'm tired of always caring, but never being cared for. I'm tired of missing people, even when some of those people are still right in front of me. I'm tired of calling, texting, emailing, chatting. I'm tired of letting all of it slide, letting everyone think it's okay to put me last. I'm tired of being unsupported.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of crying. I'm tired of knowing where I should be, yet not having the means to get there. I'm tired of knowing who and what makes me happy, yet unimportant realities get priority, get in the way when they shouldn't. I'm tired of apologizing. I'm tired of trying to fit my round personality into a boring square hole. I'm tired of screaming. I'm tired of not fulfilling my potential in life for reasons I don't understand, but reasons that nonetheless weigh so heavily on my shoulders every day.

I'm tired.

I'm tired of knowing I'm good enough and falling on my face every. single. time. I'm tired of being told to grow up, to stop caring, to get over it, to let go of my dreams. I'm tired of a lack of faith, of hope, of connection, of love. I'm tired of pleasing others who say they know what's best for me. I'm tired of being told I'm not capable of knowing what is best for myself. I'm tired of standing up for myself. I'm tired of being anyone other than myself.

I'm tired of being tired.

A Tale of Woe

I wish I had the comedic efforts of Allie Brosh to aid in this tale, but alas, I am not in a place of creativeness; if I were, could I even begin to write/illustrate something as magnificent, yet touching, as these entries? I hope so, but know the answer is "LOL, probably not, girl."

On with the tale...

It all started sometime last year, when I started feeling something of a quarter-life crisis. I was happy with the good parts of my life, but couldn't shake the funk of the bad parts. In fact, I often let the stuff bothering me eclipse the stuff that made me smile. It left me in a series of funks, but every time I found my way out, so I figured it was just self-pity or a part of growing up.

Not so long ago, I felt better for a lengthier period of time than I had for as long as I can remember. My life started to go on an upswing: I figured out some of what I wanted to do and who I wanted to do it with. I felt mostly okay, but there would always be something...

That something was and is normally me overthinking any and everything. It's how I've always been, and on occasion, it can be helpful. But there are the other times, most times, when I overthink something that has little importance in reality, or overanalyze someone's actions for stupid reasons. Times when I can't stop the thoughts, as irrational as they sound even to myself. Times when I can't find happiness or any other emotion, even when I want to.

via Hyperbole and a Half

I alternate between non-stop movement and sloth-like slowness, physically and mentally speaking, both accompanied with this astounding fatigue that feels like it has been here since I was born. I am never quite manic, but I'm never quite depressed either. Must mean the irritability, the paranoia, the anxiety, the sadness, the nothingness, the tiredness, and all the ups and downs and in-betweens must be normal, right? It's totally normal to feel nothing about a new job. It's totally normal to slouch in non-productiveness all day because you feel like an ocean is sitting on top of you. It's totally normal because it's not noticeably or dangerously abnormal. Right? RIGHT?!

I'll take wrong for $500, Alex.

After a series of events and lots of chats with my truth-sayer, I realized the reactions I have, while somewhat a part of who I am, are still not necessarily normal. It's like I have a five-course Brinner in front of me all the time and I just think, "Huh, I really could care less about the delicious and copious ways in which crispy bacon has been utilized in this meal." But then sometimes I think "THERE IS NO WAY THIS IS MINE. SOMETHING MUST BE WRONG. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING HIDDEN UNDER THIS TABLE! THE CHEFS ARE PROBZ POISONING ME! GOOD BRINNER JUST DOESN'T FALL INTO MY LAP!" And other times I'm like "Oh, man, I really hope all the animals that died to make this didn't have large families, and golly, I really hope these carbs don't clog my arteries and give me a heart attack, and SHIT, I should probably make sure that everyone else at Brinner has their meals taken care of first, and OMG! I can't believe the chef hasn't come out of the kitchen to check on us yet. Do you think he's okay? He's probably burning alive."

It's exhausting to read. It's exhausting to write. It's exhausting to live. I mean really, who can't just sit back and enjoy the bacon, no matter the circumstances? You should be able to... but I can't. Why?

In good faith, I headed to my always-trusty Internet to start investigating the process of fixin'-uppin'. After a few duds, I found a somewhat decent and free online test to take to begin to narrow down what my mind's ailment could be. I knew I couldn't be bi-polar, but everything seemed somewhat similar; a distant cousin of the disorder perhaps. And while I did score high on said disorder, I also scored high on something called Cyclothymia.

To be crass, cyclothymia is like bi-polar lite. If bi-polar were the Catholic church, I'd be Episcopalian. Of course, I have to be diagnosed. I have an appointment to chat with my trusty psych later this month to hopefully do that, but I honestly don't know what the course will be. I do know that it's a step.

That step is a crucial one, but it's not where this journey starts, and most certainly not where it ends. I also have to start making decisions that make me happy, and more importantly, decisions simply to be happy -- a hard fight, but one I think I can win. And this happiness must be based on my own notions, not some pre-described ones my friends, or my family, or even society as a whole may try to force upon me. I need to find my happy to find my way back to myself.

So goes my tale of woe. I know it's not the worst there's ever been, nor the worst there will ever be. But I do think it's an important tale to tell because as someone who has lived it for a long time, it can be really hard to admit to yourself something is wrong. It can also be even harder to notice something is wrong to begin with. Luckily, I have a person to kick my ass in gear, but if you don't... well, here I am:

Get your ass in gear! Take a test. Call a number. Make an appointment. Mental health is still health. E'rrybody got time fo' dat.