Depleted.

I know I'm different from the average bear, but sometimes it's hard to tell in what ways and to what extent. I've never fallen asleep quickly. For example, I gave up napping at 7 months.  I remember staying awake pretty much the entire night as a kindergartener, just me and the stories in my head. I can recall going to sleepovers and being annoyed because everyone would just fall asleep. At some point in my life, I learned that most people in the world fall asleep within 10-15 minutes of going to bed. My jaw dropped. Totally unbelievable. It had never occurred to me that such a thing was a possibility, let alone a norm.

So when I say I know I'm different, I don't just mean in that meaningless, bland way that we're all 'special' and 'unique.' I mean that my body and brain do some strange things that other people's bodies don't (apparently) do. And when I say that I don't always understand how that works, I mean in that way that if you only have one point of reference, it is nearly impossible to realize that there are other perspectives, let alone imagine what they might be like--you are blind to your blindspots.

I'm always tired. I'm always in pain. The extent of either varies from day to day, hour to hour. My desire always overreaches my capacity, and I push and collapse, push and collapse.  If I could be perfect--perfectly organized, perfectly disciplined, I would feel better and be able to do so much more. But I'm far from perfect, and getting there requires that I overcome what the perfection would solve--in order to acquire my panacea, I must solve all the problems it will fix. If I didn't feel like my bones were filled with lead or like I had just been beaten with a rubber mallet and my muscles were covered in mini vice grips, hey I could probably get more sleep and not skip the gym and have more stamina and be able to plan meals, study productively, and stick to a rigorous schedule that allowed me to both accomplish my obligations and enjoy my leisure time, rather than feeling like I'm in an endless loop of ripping off Peter to pay Paul. I seethe with frustration and self-hatred, neither of which reduces my pain, improves my sleep, nor helps me achieve anything. For all my loathing and misery, I'm no thinner, more organized, nor more compassionate; my house isn't cleaner, and no items get checked off of my to-do list. Then I hate myself for not being able to lay down the hate, anger, and frustration, and isolate myself from people because I believe they'll be as appalled as I am should they peer inside. But it is people that I need.

My life feels empty. People advise that you should be happy alone, blah blah blah. It's not as though I don't have friends, because I do, however, actually seeing them with any regularity is another story. It used to be, back in the day, people just hung out.  There were always people at my house, I had friends at work and at school.  There was a tribe of us who loosely hung together, not always all at once, but some of us were always together. Now it takes a lot of effort and scheduling. Everyone (including me) is consumed with their own lives--work, school, kids, houses, hobbies, whatever it may be, so it is just much harder to make things happen, to have those regular interactions that allow relationships to deepen. I do like to be alone. I am, most definitely, a woman who likes her solitude. I like quiet. I like sitting alone in the woods, breathing cool, sweet air, with none but the birds and squirrels for company. I have never felt lonely in the forest. And I do plenty of things alone because otherwise I would just sit in my house for eternity. I go to movies alone, I go take pictures alone, I go to yoga class alone, I go for walks alone, I go to Phipps, museums, events, lectures, and drink tea alone. I even enjoy much of what I do by myself, even if I would prefer to share the experience with someone else.

But everything has its limits, and we are social creatures, pack animals, by nature. If a baby is given all its physical needs, but no affection and attention, it will die. People can, in fact, die of a broken heart. Sometimes I feel mute, as though I'm trapped behind bulletproof glass--my words hit and lodge in the wall, never making it out. I try to explain what things are like for me, but at times it feels like I'm speaking a dead language. Sometimes I feel like there is a rotting wound in the middle of my chest, emptiness gnawing through flesh. Almost every day, I wake up and wish I didn't, wish that I never would. Everything just gets so exhausting. My world becomes so heavy. Every movement, every word, every action. Every. Thing. My relationships with others suffer because I lack the energy to "rise to the occasion," because I forget to lie when I'm asked how I am.

I'm out of gas. I run on fumes. I try to pretend like I'm not different. I try to pretend that everything works just fine. I try to pretend that, if I just act like it's true, it will be. That my legs won't give and that I'll be able to run the race, that I can win. But there is no race, no winning.

Just an endless trudge up the hill, pushing a rock.