Worn Out

I was tired. The kind of tired you feel when your mind won’t shut off or allow rest. Thoughts banging around inside like a toddler pounding on a drum set. Relentless. Persistent. Never ending. Ranging from repetitive song lyrics to worrying about finances, to re-evaluating past conversations, or the absence of a polite hello from a childhood friend or even an acquaintance.

How far I’ve fallen from the accomplishments in my life. Once able to care for the sick, prioritize the needs and balance the care for multiple patients. Nursing everyone to health, except for myself. Now my heart pounds and thumps inside my chest if my little girl throws up on herself and all over the bed. Frozen. Unsure of what to do. Panicked. Years of sustained flight or fight reactions, a disruptive, chaotic homelife had finally caught up to my nerves. Short-circuited them. Fried them.

Exhausted. Worn out from trying to survive. Hiding. Ignoring being unwell. I finally succumbed to the reality of having a mental illness. Asked for help. No longer fought a battle alone. Took the time to allow adjustments of medications. Tolerated the side effects. Almost used to the constant hunger and the slight hand tremor. Persevering with one goal; to just feel better. Becoming a consistent wife and mother. 

It’s not that I wasn’t strong enough before, it’s just that there’s more at stake now.

Time is much more precious.

I owe it to myself, for the man I adore, the children I devote my heart and soul to, because when it comes time for them to write their own story, may it be of strength and courage, not overcoming damage.