The Quiet Weight of Exhaustion

Mental health, Sobriety, and Life as a Writer

I shouldn’t be so tired all the time but I am.

I don’t mean normal tired. I mean—I can sleep an entire Saturday away tired. During the week, I work, come home, and get right into bed. I don’t go to sleep right away (usually), but I throw a nightgown on, climb into bed, and dive into a deep vegetative state watching shit television and playing mindless games on my iPad. Sometimes I pick up my computer to do some editing on my Medium publications and sometimes still I try doing some writing of my own.

It’s rare that my writing gets very far these days.

It’s like—I have all the time in the world yet no time at all. My housework doesn’t get done, dinner doesn’t get made, and my desire to write suffers.

I used to think it was because I liked to drink to write. But drinking creates a false reality, right? A dense cloud? I thought all my focus would come rushing back once I dipped my toes into the sobriety pool. But, no.

I also thought it had to do with my major depression. Depression has had a hold on me for as long as I can remember. When it gets bad, there is no motivation to be had. To do anything. My mental health journey has certainly been a roller coaster ride, but I’m not feeling depressed right now. I’m just drained. I feel like I could go to sleep for days and if I didn’t have to get my ass out of bed to go to work most days of the week, I probably would stay in bed.

For a couple of years there I went through a series of autoimmune testing. I have certain markers plus anemia and low B12 levels—all things that my chronic fatigue can be attributed to, but have never received any concrete answers.

It’s like I’m walking and sleeping through life in a constant fog.

I’m reaching out in a million different directions right now. Flailing, falling.

Where is the spark of life I was supposed to feel when I quit drinking? All the weight I was supposed to lose? All the motivation I was supposed to gain? All the clear-headed thinking I was supposed to experience? I don’t feel much different other than I’m not a middle-aged woman getting drunk and I’m even more quiet than I used to be.

Is it muddled by high-functioning depression?

Have I been depressed for so long that I’ve become really, really, really, really good at masking it? Even from myself? Is that why all I want to do is sleep? I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel lost. I don’t feel numb. I just feel tired.

Is it physical? Then why in the highfalutin hell is it so difficult to diagnose? I’m just another woman complaining about not feeling well. About being so damn tired all the time. About sleeping away my weekends.

Is it imposter syndrome? Am I paralyzed by fear? Stupified to the point where I don’t do or write anything?

Or maybe, just maybe, I possess inadequate time management skills.

I’m guessing it’s a little bit of all of the above.

I could surmise that I’m mentally broken. It’s okay—it’s true. As I said, it’s been a wild ride. My manic mental health is not only my albatross but also my gift. It has allowed me to reach deep inside myself and access many deep pockets of my world. My ability to hyperfixate lets me revisit the past completely when I write memoir.

Sometimes I wonder if writing memoir has been a way of reinventing my past—creating entertaining stories out of memories that are otherwise painful and packed away. But what kind of masochistic fool wants to relive the traumatic experiences that chipped away at their mental health to begin with?

We all know how healing writing can be. That’s why one of the first things a therapist will tell you to do is journal if you’re so inclined. Writing also has tendency to isolate my introverted self even more than normal. And I’m pretty damned introverted. But I kind of like it that way.

There is a famous quote by Ray Bradbury that goes:

"You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you."

It really hits me right in the gut. Interesting, the use of the word drunk. There is an addictive quality to writing. At least for me. I will say that the most damaging dips in my mental well-being have been during times when I was not expressing myself creatively in any way. Not writing, not performing, not creating, nothing. No outlet, no place to channel my energy, and nowhere to escape. That’s when I’ve lost myself.

When I write, I don’t get lost in myself, I get lost in my work. I’m focusing. I’m reliving. I’m expressing. I’m processing. Even now, I’m working through this angst through my words.

I used to feel like I needed booze to keep reality from destroying me—but we all know that’s a lie.

I thought drinking allowed me to break my walls down. Lie.

I thought drinking made me social and engaging. Gregarious, even. Lie.

I thought drinking gave me the freedom to be a raw, vulnerable writer. Lie.

Drinking kept me from being truthful in my art and kept me from facing the demons that feed me. It also kept my mental health on unsteady ground. I know better now.

I don’t have any answers.

Other than writing round ‘n round in circles, I’ve got nothing. I don’t know why I suffer from chronic fatigue or why it keeps me from being as functional as I’d like. I wish I did have answers. I’m tired of seeing doctors about it and I’m tired of being told, “it’s just depression.”

What I do know is that I’m stronger than the world gives me credit for, and I will fight through and face this, too.

And I will write.