My alarm is supposed to go off in about 55 minutes, but here I am, wide awake. It’s still dark outside, and I think the sun might be too tired to rise. I can hear raindrops hitting the windows with a ferocity that’s quite startling. It sounds like tiny glass cutters are being juggled by someone who watched a 3 minute Youtube video.
After watching the last ad, they decided they could become a professional juggler. Practise? Nah, the video told them how to do it, and it didn’t look that hard. They’re standing outside tossing those damn cutters around because they were cheaper than knives. It’s not going well, but at least my windows are holding up to the madness.
Get a hobby, they said! It will be fun, they said. Don’t juggle glass cutters! For legal reasons, I feel like I need to add that disclaimer.
Oh, I’m so tired, and I could really use those last 55 minutes of sleep. Can you tell? My brain feels foggy but energetic. It feels like I drank a gallon of coffee and went for a run underwater. I’m not getting very far, my muscles are screaming, and I should give it a rest.
I want to curl up in my bed, under a warm blanket, and squeeze my eyes closed. Oh, my poor eyes are burning, and now I’m just complaining. It’s getting old. I’m tired of my own whining! Sigh, I should go back to bed, have weird dreams, and wake up with a feeling of bemused confusion.
The other night I dreamt that my dad told me to hide an apple pie in my bladder because we were being chased by masked bandits. Logistically, it didn’t make sense, and why was the pie so important? I love pie! Apple is in my top 3. Bladder pie? Ew, no thank-you.
Where did that dream come from? I don’t know! Well, obviously, I had to take care of one significant bodily function. But the pie? Dreams are weird, and my dreams like to amplify the bizarre to a new level of WTF.
Is that why I’m awake right now? Why I’m sitting on my couch with my dog snuggling next to me? My laptop perched precariously on a pillow so I can type these words. The WTF in my brain hit an all-new high, or is that low? So many questions! It’s too early for questions.
It’s too early for typing! But here we are, and I don’t know what I’m doing or saying. I don’t know what I’m doing or saying at any given moment. It’s a mystery wrapped in tinsel, and there’s a bow on top. At least it’s pretty and shiny.
Can you tell how tired I am? I’m too tired to walk to my kitchen, fill my kettle, boil some water, and make a cup of tea. That say’s a lot! Too tired for tea? Tea! Of all things, tea is sacred, and I could really use a cup right now.
I’m worn out, and it’s not because my brain beat my alarm to the finish line. This is a level of weariness that I can’t seem to shake. It’s combative, and it chases my hopefulness around with the same giddiness that my dog has when he goes after the cat. If they caught each other, would they know what to do? Part of me is genuinely curious, and I want to let it play out. The other part is responsible, caring, and wants everyone to just get along.
Can’t we all just get along?
So, I break up the chase with a scolding glare and yell at anything that will listen. I send exhaustion to one lobe and hope to the other. One is sullen and pouts as it stops off. The other wants a hug and some reassurance before it settles down with a sigh. Guess which one’s which. Go on, guess.
I’ve said this before because the stay at home order is messing with my originality. But my word for this year is hope. After last year, I desperately need to believe in kindness, decency, and a life that’s more than what it has been. I need to believe that everything will be okay. This year will turn us around and set us on a brighter course.
I need hope!
But right now, all I feel is tired. I feel like I’m living in a grey, rainy, gloomy void that offers little in the way of inspiration. I’m reaching for words that will give us both hope, a reason to hold on, but they all disintegrate the second I touch them. Poof, they’re nothing but crumpled mushy remnants of words, thoughts, feelings.
But hope! What about hope? Even on the darkest days, there’s always something to believe in, wish for, and hold on to. It might not be obvious, we might have to go looking for it, but it is there. Somewhere. If only I had the energy to look, but I’m very tired right now.
And I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.
I keep repeating myself. I’m stuck in a loop. Around and around. How about an original thought? I’m trying! I’m trying so hard, but I can’t make it work. Not now. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it. I want to, and now we’re back in the loop again.
It’s a dreary morning, and my mind is running wild while my body begs for a rest. I’m wrangling exhaustion and trying to stop it from picking fights with my hopefulness. Right now, all I want to do is give up, go to bed, and pull the covers over my head.
Can I? Should I? What do I do now?
It’s very tempting to leave it there and walk away, but I despise cliffhangers. I’m the type of person who reads all of the spoilers before watching anything. The suspense makes me nauseous. Hello, my name is Keri, and I’m a control freak. Give me all the answers now, so I can sit back and enjoy the show without feeling out of control, scared, or anxious.
Leaving you to ponder my next move feels cruel in a weird way. How could you possibly stand it? Not knowing is the worst! It makes my eyeballs itch. You can’t scratch your eyeballs, you know. That could cause retinal damage, and we wouldn’t want that. No, my friend, for the sake of your precious eyesight, I can’t let you suffer.
Yeah, okay, I’m sure you’re fine, and you’ll be right as rain living in the unknown. I’m projecting my itches onto you, and I shouldn’t do that. My itches are my own. But still, it doesn’t feel right leaving you there without some sort of resolution.
So, the question is….
Well, it remains the same because I still don’t know what to do, but asking the question is a good start. It means I’m looking for answers, and I still believe that they’re out there somewhere. It means I haven’t given up, not entirely, so there’s a chance that I can find my inspiration again. Should I add a question mark at the end of that sentence?
Asking that question means I’m not ready to give up and walk away.
But, to be completely honest, that thought has crossed my mind more than I care to admit. Give up. Walk away. What’s the point of trying? Oh, you’re failing at something? What a surprise! These thoughts roll around my head when I’m trying to sleep. They wake me up at stupid o’clock and won’t shut up. Doubt, fear, and insecurity are overwhelming me right now so, I’m wide awake when I should be fast asleep.
What do I do about it? I don’t know. Do I want to give up? Hell yeah, I’m tired of trying and failing. I’m tired of caring. I put my heart into everything I do, but it never feels like enough. Will it ever be enough? I don’t know, and that scares the crap out of me because I just want to be enough.
Well, that’s something right there. I just want to be enough, but too often, who I am doesn’t feel adequate. There’s a deafening silence, and my brain assures me that it’s a telling sign. See, you’re sitting here all alone, and no one will ever notice. Shut up, Brain. It’s the truth. You’ve been writing in circles, and your imagination has been rather derivative. Shut up, Brain. Why would anyone read a word you write? Shut up, Brain.
Yes, sometimes I have to tell my brain to shut up. If you ever hear me say it out loud, then you know I’m struggling. Saying it silently in my head? I’m mildly aggravated. Yelling it in a crowded room (when those were a thing)? Ask me if I’m okay because I’m absolutely not doing well.
Write it on a page? Well, no one’s going to read this so, it doesn’t really matter you complete and total fail…Shut up, Brain!
Every cell in my body is telling me to walk away because this is too hard. I can’t do this anymore. I’m not smart enough, creative enough, and I’ll never be enough. So why do I keep trying? Why did I start doing this in the first place? I have all of these “why’s” but only a few answers.
If I write for likes and such, then I’m destined for heartbreak and failure. If I do it because I love it, and it gives me a sense of purpose? Especially during a time in my life when my purpose is elusive. Well, I’ll still come up short on the metrics, but at least my heart will be a little happier. My mind will be content. My purpose fulfilled?
I don’t know about the last one because a purpose is hard to nail down. At least, I’ve found it hard to pinpoint. Am I the only one who’s gone this long without knowing why they’re here? Probably not. Somethings are universal. Purpose, meaning, and the need to be enough are at the top of the list.
If I’m not alone when it comes to these feelings, then the question becomes one of endurance. Why do I keep going when I feel tired, uninspired, and aimless?
And I’m not just talking about writing. I’m struggling with this feeling in all aspects of my life. Since I write about my life, it’s only natural that one bleeds into the other. My life as a whole feels uninspired, creatively derivative, and I’m emotionally drained. These last 300 plus days have worn me down, and now I’m just skin and bones alone in my apartment.
Or, that’s how I feel.
But what if I’m more than these feelings banging around in my head? These moody, broody, bombastic emotions say a lot without really saying anything at all. The stories they tell are nothing more than lies sold to a tired mind. This entity takes advantage of weariness and loneliness.
What if I’m more than these words that I type on this very page? Not defined by analytics, but by the connections made with other people. People who see the world as it could be, and not just as it is. People who feel things strongly and become overwhelmed by life. People who ask the unanswerable questions because they, like me, are desperately searching for meaning and purpose.
And just like that, I can answer one question: Why am I awake right now?
This need for connection is so strong that it woke me up from a deep sleep. It pushed me to this laptop, and it’s typing these words. As I write, my thoughts become clearer, and this need becomes stronger. I write because I am alone. I write because I need to reach out. I do this because I need you to know that you’re not alone. I’m here, reaching out.
And I love you for that.
I imagine there are those who say I would probably love a raindrop if it landed prettily on my window while I was looking out at the place I ache for…
But I love how you reach out,
with so much more openness than you take credit for.
A couple of weeks ago, I was curled up in migrainey despair and you parachuted into my scared and alone place…
without a parachute…
but with a couple of lines of email that quite literally saved me from disappearing into a scream I had been building all night from stuff that really doesn’t look like pretty raindrops on windows.
You were my kettle that night, when nothing else in the world even knew I was desperate for a cuppa.
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