I'm so tired. I'm sick and tired. I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. And not just in a if-I-sleep-till-noon-every-day-this-weekend-I'll-feel-better sort of tired. I'm absolutely, balls-to-the-wall exhausted. Physically. Emotionally. Mentally. I'm burnt toast.
I mentioned in a previous post that I don't bullshit anymore. I don't say I'm ok when I'm not and I don't sugar coat it. So guess what? This last month or so, my life has sucked. Royally. I've never wanted to quit everything more in my entire life. Overwhelmed doesn't even begin to describe how I've been feeling lately.
This past month of July has been one of the hardest I've had to struggle through in a while. One of those months where you're hoping the days speed the hell up to just get it over with in the hopes that the next month will be better. Like the 1st of August holds something way better than the 31st of July, some deep and secret magic will immediately make everything that sucked about July just disappear like it never happened. If only.
I started off the month of July/ended June by getting my period. Gross? TMI? Suck it up, it's part of life. I'm just sayin'. And for anyone who knows me well, they know that I don't get moody or bitchy during Shark Week (or Aunt Flo's monthly visit or whatever else you're naming it to try to be discreet or funny). I get violently ill. We're talking occasional fever, cramps that make me feel like something is trying to chainsaw its way through my uterus while my Fallopian tubes strangle my poor ovaries, worshiping the porcelain god like it's my job, and absolute searing, excruciating back pain. Yeah. I'd prefer the hormones and emotional roller coaster for a few days than that.
July started to look up with the 4th and the long weekend I was going to get out of it. Boss let us leave the office early on the 3rd, I had plans on the 4th to go to a party and see fireworks, plans on the 5th to go to the beach, plans on the 6th for the beach and then girl's night, then beach on the 7th or absolutely nothing. I was stoked. Thrilled. I left the office on the 3rd telling my coworker that I felt weird. Not sick, but just weird and off. I got home, took a nap, and woke up with 103 degree fever. That 103 degree fever broke and went back up to 103 at least three times over the next three to four days and I couldn't keep anything down for the same amount of time. I haven't gotten nailed with a flu like that in years. Absolutely miserable.
About a week after I got over that, Shark Week decides to come. Again. Twice in the same month. Two weeks. That was all the relief I got, and then I was thrown back into the 7th layer of hell. My potential future children better appreciate this.
Then, maybe two or three days after I finally thought I was going to get relief, I got bitch-slapped with something even worse. Right out of left field. That line drive to the face you didn't have time to block that almost shatters your cheekbone and knocks you flat onto the pitcher's mound (not that I'm speaking from experience...). And I apologize for the slew of baseball analogies...the Red Sox game is on while I'm writing this (and they're kicking Houston's ass!!!).
I nannied/babysat for this one family (whose last name I will not use out of privacy and respect) for over seven years. They have six children, and I started working for them as a Mommy's Helper the summer I turned 15 in 2001. Their mother was pregnant with baby #6 when I started and through the years I literally grew up with their kids.
The second oldest, Kathryn, was 7-years-old when I met her. She immediately became glued to my hip and was my little buddy. My shadow. Possibly the most mature child her age I've ever met, Kathryn helped out around the house with the younger kids, cleaning up after meals, folding laundry, helping keep an eye on her younger siblings for the 30 seconds it took me to run to the bathroom (Yes, they did need this supervision as one time they tried to set the house on fire while I was in the bathroom. No lie.), and a thousand and one other things I can't even begin to name here. Kathryn was smart, pretty, bright, and just so incredibly caring, even for people who didn't necessarily deserve it. One of my best memories of her was when she was 12, almost 13, and was trying to practice her flips for cheerleading...in the house, as a severe thunderstorm made us all relocate. Between almost kicking me in the head and crashing into her little brother, I yelled at her to knock it off before she killed someone. *Cue puppy eyes and innocent smile.* "But Melisssssssaaaaaa, I need to practice before school starts." Sucked. I couldn't be mad at her. Damn cute kid.
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| Kathryn and little sister Kelsey, Summer 2006 (Right after getting yelled at for doing flips in the house) |
That's how I want to remember her. That's how I have to remember her. The older she got, for reasons I won't mention here, Kathryn got deeper and deeper into things that were slowly eating her alive. I watched from a distance, as painful as that was for me, watching her kill herself slowly. She was in and out of programs and she would update me occasionally on where she was and how she was doing. Kathryn never hid anything from me and I'm grateful for that if nothing else. She wanted desperately to get sober, to be healthy. She wanted it so bad.
On July 18th, Kathryn died. She had OD'd. I found out the morning of the 19th when I got to work. I've never been more devastated in my life. She was 19, would have been 20 in November. I almost didn't go to her wake. I didn't want to break down when I was there and I didn't want to see her or remember her like that.
But I went. And she was absolutely beautiful. And it's sad but that's the most peaceful I've seen her in a long time. The kid deserved peace and if she didn't get it here in this life, I'm praying she finds it in the next.
It's still setting in now that she's gone. That I'll never go to her wedding, or see her have kids. I'm so incredibly happy that she's no longer in pain, but I don't know if the shock has really left. I still think she's going to text me to say hi and say she misses me and we need to get together like now. I've finally stopped crying, but the devastation is still hanging out.
Tack onto all of this another mild stomach bug and a chest infection and you've got my month of July 2013. Add on top of that the standard grown-up bullshit of general financial stress, loneliness, Sallie Mae (I hate you), bitterness about the American educational system ("Get a higher degree," they said. "It'll be fun," they said. "And then we'll punish you financially for the next 20 years..." though I think that last part was in the fine print that I skipped over), and you have an emotionally drained Melissa. Severely and emotionally drained.
I legitimately thought I was going to just crack this past month. Like have a complete mental breakdown and go past the point of no return (I'm now humming Phantom of the Opera in my head). I snapped at a lot of people and in turn had to apologize to a lot of people for being a complete bitch. Don't lie to me. I know how nasty I've been.
I feel like I'm suffering through days where I'm ready to be like, fuck this noise, I'm running away and I'm just done. I'm 27 in about two weeks and I've accomplished nothing that I thought I would have by this point in my life (other than finishing my English Masters). I haven't traveled the world. I haven't written a bestselling memoir. I haven't gotten married and I haven't had kids (though the older I get, the happier I am waiting on those). I don't have a job that has me working in a high rise in NYC working as an editor at a prestigious publication (Vogue, Time, etc.) and I'm not a famous movie star. And I'm definitely far less financially secure than I had hoped I would be by almost 27. All this has been running through my head all summer on top of everything that's been going on. I need to find an off button like yesterday.
I wish I had some profound words of wisdom here, both for myself and everyone I know in similar situations. I want to be like, oh hey it'll get better, but I don't know that. I hope it does, but I don't know for sure. I want to find that silver lining somewhere in here, but it's always hard to see the sun through the storm clouds. I'm so tired of being strong, but I don't have a choice. I'm allowing myself those moments where I break down so I don't freak out on people as badly, and that's seemed to help, but it doesn't eliminate the anxiety. Just eases it a bit temporarily.
I still have a thousand and one things I want to do with my life, I haven't become so jaded that that's changed just yet. I don't have the answers to any of this and I don't ever expect to.
My body may be caged in this life, but my mind, my spirit, and my soul will never be caged. Though I sort of stole from Ms. Angelou on this one, she wasn't wrong. There you have my profound words for the evening. Take it, because at nearly midnight that's probably the best you'll get from me. Life is brutal and it will always hit us with that shit that you're just not ready for or prepared for. What else can we do but keep our heads up survive? That's life. That's all. Better or worse. But it's real. And sometime it really fucking hurts, but it's all we've got.
I will never pretend to have the answers to anything life throws at me. The important thing is how I respond to those line drives at my face and whether I allow the pain to keep me flat on my back or whether I pop back up to finish the game (For the record, my cheekbone didn't actually shatter, and yes, I finished pitching that game. And we won.).
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