Exhaustion

It never ends, you see, never ever.

But it does ebb and flow.

Sometimes, it all crashes around my shoulder for a million reasons and I can’t breathe without wanting to cry. And I’m beyond exhausted, but it’s not like the exhaustion of having a newborn or being pregnant. It’s not like the exhaustion of working too many hours and coming home to an empty house. It’s not like any of those, but it’s just…. constant.

Except when it’s not. Because somehow, it always lifts. The days don’t change, you see. They trudge onward, sometimes fast and sometimes slow, but there are the same things that need to be done over and over again. Sort, wash, dry, fold, put away, clean off the floor and into the basket. Filling the fridge to cook to feed to eat to see an empty fridge. These things are on a constant loop of repetition. And they drain me. Until, one day, they don’t anymore.

One day, it seems fruitful to clean and cook. One day, I laugh and tickle the children. The exhaustion, it hides again.

Here’s the thing that no one tells you: It’s a messy, dirty, demanding job. I’m not talking about diapers and spit-up. The whole thing, this whole thing.

I remind myself of that sometimes, when my perspective is lacking. When I consistently chipper facebook statuses about being up! Since! 5! with my little Man!! surrounded by hearts. I think, Why the hell don’t you just show your weakness? because we all survive on coffee or cartoons or an extra-full glass of wine at night or whatever and I’m not sure why people need to pretend that they never look back longingly on the day that Friday nights mean a sparkly shirt and a cab downtown and feeling sexy and free and not giving a fuck about anyone else. Although I can tell you right now, that Friday nights never meant that for me, because I always cared about what other people were saying, whispering, doing, thinking. And I don’t want that time back either, you see. Even the other night when Leila spent the night away from me and Steve worked late and it was only Alena sleeping upstairs in this big quiet house, I sighed and missed the sound of Leila’s breath. And I tossed and turned and couldn’t sleep until Steve laid his heavy weight on his side of the bed.

So it’s not… I don’t know… it’s not wanting what I don’t have, it’s just, well, a little bit of over-indulgent self-pity I suppose.

But school is almost done for the term and the weekends are quickly filling up with Christmas and birthday parties and the girls and I have plans to decorate this coming Sunday while Steve works. And on Friday I’m getting my hair done and then meeting my mom to buy a new outfit for Steve’s work party on Saturday night when I plan on pouring myself into a sparkly shirt and drinking too much wine.

It will get better, I’ll feel better. This I know.

Ebb and flow. Breathe in, breathe out.

 

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