enough is a lot

1. i’m tired

i’ve been tired for a long, long time. but i’m really, really tired now.

i’m tired of keeping my head levelled and my things together.
i’m tired of pushing through, staying strong, and finding gratitude.
i’m tired of figuring things out to figure things out.
i’m tired of doing the work and getting the same as those who don’t.
i’m tired of being bad and good and mediocre.
i’m tired of cooking dinner and watching the world burn.
i’m tired of having no time for my friends, family, and self.
i’m tired of waiting out weak connections, in life and online.
i’m tired of explaining and justifying and repeating myself.
i’m tired of acting a mother before having a child.
i’m tired of carrying guilt in love and in rage.
i’m tired of feeling alone when i’m not.

i’m so, so tired. aren’t you?

2. not myself

there isn’t much that sounds good when you’re tired. but there is something especially jarring about hearing the words “you’re not yourself”. because whether this non-self is enjoyable or not, the statement fails to flatter. instead of taking it as criticism, though, i took it as inspiration. if myself isn’t myself, and myself hasn’t been working, then i might as well not try to stay this self at all.

…

on saturday, i decided to take myself out on a date. i wore heels, listened to music, and drank decaffeinated coffee. i left a bookstore without a new book, but bought and smoked cigarettes instead. i fantasized about making out with a stranger, got drunk at a wine bar, and worst of all, i was hoping for more.

this would’ve have been a regular day for a fun girl who doesn’t need comfort to walk the streets confidently or caffeine to be energized; who doesn’t need to read books to know how to read between the lines; who kisses her friends on the lips, is spontaneous and not afraid to break rules; who throws parties, follows her dreams and looks like one. a fun girl would have done all this with ease and made it look, well, fun.

but that’s not me. i don’t have grace nor do i have a three-syllable name that rolls off the tongue, abbreviates into cute nicknames, and means something endearing like “worthy of love”. instead, i’m weighty and fragmented, hard to hold in one hand. my name is stiff and thorny; awkward to mouth. i take naps, go to bed early, and still need coffee to have moderate energy. music overstimulates me. alcohol makes me sick and sad. i carry a book in my bag, for comfort. i’m afraid of the dark and my dreams are usually nightmares. alas, friends call me to borrow my ear, not to have the time of their lives.

you can imagine, then, that being a fun girl didn’t exactly look easy or fun on me. it was clear that my performance lacked practice. i took some wrong turns (music is disorienting), tried wiggling off my toe cramps (heels are cruel), sat and cried under a tree (couldn’t help it), and read a book at a bar (according to flat-brim guy: “not normal”).

that’s me and my night when i’m fun. i went home at 2am and slept through all of sunday. i was already tired of being myself, but now i’m tired of being her, too.

3. all the women in me are tired

all the women in me are tired, wrote Nayyirah Waheed, and my sigh hasn’t ended since i’ve read this line. how many years would i need to exhale to lift the weight, i wonder. how many women in me can i still save?

4. composure needs sleep, too

my arms aren’t enough to hold up the house and catch the debris. the floor isn’t lava but how deep will things drop if it’s holed? will my fingers stretch enough to reach? can i release it all, let things fall, let things break, fix things later? or is later too late? how late must composure stay awake until it gets the sleep that it needs?

i beg of you, please, let me be weak. let me be reckless. let me smash plates and say things i don’t mean. let me fall like leaves that don’t survive the heat. let me fall apart, decompose, and be one with the ground. let me fall asleep and wake up a tree—at least, until i’m ready to be me, again.

i’m trying to be enough. but fuck, enough is a lot.