Y’all. I am tired. I am tired mentally, physically, emotionally. There are words no one wants to hear, especially not a 40 year old someone with three kids, a mortgage, and a propensity to eat on a daily basis. Those words? Laid off. When you hear those two words together, especially less than a month before Christmas, it does something to your insides, twists them together and churns them around as your brain then starts to visualize too many things at once: the balance of your bank accounts, the amount of food in the fridge and pantry — THERE ARE NO MORE OREOS — bills, your resume, CHRISTMAS. You reflect on the multiple times you’ve said Christmas is out of control, let’s rein it in. You reflect on what you ate this morning and wonder whether it’ll stay inside. You stare at the paper handed to you because touching it means you’re not daydreaming. Touching it makes it real, makes a trip to the unemployment office a potential, horrifying possibility.
And yet. You take the paper, read it, shrug. Sure, you want to cry and throw something, and ultimately steal the desk lamp, but you don’t. You go back to work. And then you keep showing up because at least for now there’s this. At least for now there’s food and gas and maybe a not horrific, they’ll always remember the barren, jobless Christmas Christmas.
Don’t worry. In reality, I will only have been out of work for two weeks because thankfully I found a new job fairly quickly. It’s not ideal, but at this point, how dare I complain. Even I, in my natural state of pessimism can see that there is no room for complaint.
But. I’m tired. It was a devastating time of what if and if only and how come and what now and fuck. this. Emotionally I’m good because I started sending out resumes that same day and had an unusually calm belief that someone would recognize my talent and call. Mentally I’m good because the voices are still there to tell me the Oreo level may be in the danger zone. Physically, though? I am drained. When the kids go to bed, my body tells me to follow their lead. I am sluggish during the day, craving what only being horizontal can give me. I think constantly about yoga. If doing yoga poses in my head, especially the ones that are supposed to promote energy, counted toward physical activity? I would be very, very sweaty.
I WANT to be active. I WANT to feel the rush of adrenaline from moving, exercising, getting my heart pumping. It feels good; I remember. But, bed and pillows and warmth. I even listed things I was going to get done over these two weeks. Right. Those projects have been sitting uncompleted for years. Why rush and try to get them done in two weeks?
I want to expel the word tired from my vocabulary. I want to wake up tomorrow ready to measure crown molding, ready to do something worthwhile on my project list, ready to flex and lift, bend, stretch, Namaste. But I know I will wake, send the kids off to school and then…well. And then, Tempurpedic.
I starting drinking Red Bull. I’d be asleep an hour later. No wings. I am both disgusted by my energy level and fully willing to let it be the little engine that could scream just leave me, save yourself.
I’ve been to the doctor. Aside from a possibly less than perfect diet (Funyuns come in really big bags), there’s no real reason I’m this run down. Maybe emotionally I’m not as good as I thought. Maybe mentally I need more than frequent reminders of rapidly depleting Oreos (I could have really used one of those head voices to tell me there was no toilet paper left). Maybe my brain isn’t talking to my body to tell it it’s ok, we’re going to make it?
Can one of you voices deliver that message, ask my body to change the dial from barely basic to get up, get out, and get something? And remind me about the toilet paper, damn.