Everything's Fine, Seriously!

I’m okay, I tell myself. I want to believe that, too. The weariness on my face has betrayed me lately since strangers have stopped mid-conversation to ask how I was doing. The dark ruts under my eyes must have sold me out. I typically blow it off and mention I haven’t been sleeping much, and my mind is racing more often than not. I feel fine. I also feel exhausted in almost every way possible.

Writing helps, knowing very few people read what I write doesn’t. But the therapy is in the doing, not in its reception. That gives me peace. It also gives me more license to be vulnerable. The people who DO read these weekly amalgamations of emotions care about me. I’m thankful they exist and want to do them justice by writing honestly.

Sometimes, I overcommit and find myself spread too thin. I’m in desperate need of a break. To quote John Muir, “The mountains are calling, I must go.” I feel a desperation to be disconnected. I want to sit by a river and listen to the songs of the water dancing over rocks. I want to find myself thigh-deep in the tannin-stained waters of an Eastern North Carolina swamp. Instead, I stare bleary-eyed at myriad screens because I’m feigning busyness. I AM busy, but not so busy I can’t break away. Yet, when I have downtime, I crash hard. Then I feel guilty for taking a break, not getting more done, and not resting.

I know this is a cyclical thing for me. I won’t stay here forever. I have plans to break away and get lost in the woods with a friend soon. Community helps; it always does. I’ve been very active with various online communities lately. I’ve been teaching creative writing classes for veterans on Thursday nights, taking a similar class on Wednesday nights, and meeting with a veteran’s book club online a few times a month. Those groups are equal parts life-giving and exhausting. But I love it. It turns out that giving back and participating in community truly helps me, and I wouldn’t trade it. I need the energy to do more of it.

Mostly, the nature of my current job, which I just celebrated a 10th anniversary, zaps my brain in a way that is hard to describe. It creates a burnout I can only compare to what I imagine assembly line workers feel. There is no creativity involved, just repetitive motions and mental atrophy. On paper, it looks good. One could say I should find a new job, and if such an opportunity arose, I’d jump, but trading a steady salary and healthcare is a dangerous gamble.

My job has all the indicators of altruism without the feel-good moments associated with truly doing gratifying work. There have been moments when I’ve used this knowledge and gained wisdom to help those around me. But more often than not, those moments are off the clock. Again, on paper, it’s a great job, and I’ve learned valuable skills and am thankful to be employed a decade later. I need to touch grass, as they say. Everything’s fine, seriously.