I Get Tired

I've been wondering lately: Is it all just a mask? Is it all—is everything I try to do—simply an attempt to fill the hole, cover the pain. Working and volunteering and writing and trying to meet people on dating apps: Is it all bullshit? Am I being true to myself in any of my pursuits? I’m not sure how I summon the energy; sometimes I wonder if I’d rather spend my days in bed.

I guess I’m not alone in these thoughts: Others certainly question the authenticity of their lives. The big things: Is this the right career path? Do I have the right partner? What do I want?

And, of course, some would see it as a luxury—all of it. Grow up, they’d say: Life is about duty, responsibility; you suck it up and do what you have to. Right. Maybe. But there’s more to it; there has to be.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), I have few responsibilities: No mortgage to pay, no kids to feed. No one is relying on me.

Maybe that’s it, or, at least, part of it. An adult man should have responsibilities, perhaps needs responsibilities—real ones. A hole is left in their place; without duty to others, how do we find meaning and satisfaction?

Maybe I’m off track: Control what you can control. In the place I am now—forty and living with my parents—on a day-to-day, what can I do? What should I do? What do I want to do? What would feel authentic?

Maybe nothing, all the time. Maybe that’s too much to ask; these lulls exist and you just have to get through them. That sounds right. But what if I feel the lulls getting bigger, and heavier; that seems to necessitate change.

Unfortunately, my capacity for change is very limited. Unfortunately. My main tenants: Living with my parents and relying on them on a daily basis, almost have to stay the same. (I suppose they don’t entirely: I just finished reading Being Heumann: An Unrepentant Memoir of a Disability Rights Advocate, in which a quadriplegic woman who, as a child, was kept out of school because people didn’t want to deal her wheelchair was considered a fire hazard in an inaccessible school, moved several times across the country, living as independently as is possible for someone who can’t roll over in bed.) My independence—that most primal, human feeling—is largely gone (I fantasize often about getting it back; buying and driving a car nears the top of my list). I’ve tried to make an effort in other ways; I’ve adapted. For almost fifteen years I’ve been adapting. I’m tired. I want a break. I need a break.

I need a vacation from this life. More than any of you—yes, you—I need some time off. Not to visit an exotic location away from the stresses of my job; the narrow confines of this life follow me everywhere. Even asleep, at night, there they are—always. Even in my dreams I am different, I am limited. I can never escape.

Hasn’t he accepted this by now? You’d have to be delusional not to, right? I have. I’m not stewing in anger all the time, unprocessed grief weighing me down. I’m just tired.

Tired of struggling. Tired of fighting. Tired of needing. Tired of looking at the world and its people and seeing everything I want but can’t have. Tired of the daily—and hourly, and minute-ly—frustrations. I’m so tired.

Staying in bed seems like a reasonable solution. I feel normal in bed; at least, more normal—the discomfort of one knee resting on the other—bone on bone—is impossible to ignore. But it’s the best I can do, the closest to a vacation that I get. So, yes, of course, sometimes I want it to last a little longer; I want it to take over. I don’t want to come back.