28
Sep 13

Sad and Tired

Last weekend I was sick—sinus infection run amok—and I wrote a post for this blog about that. About that, and about how I have somehow lost that new job I thought I was going to take me to the end of the year, and about how I miss my mom. You’d recognize it, I think, if I posted it, because it was a lot like a lot of the other stuff I’ve been writing since last year when Mom got sick—slightly freaked out, slightly self-pitying, very trying-to-put-a-good-face-on-things. I don’t write posts about my daily life anymore, I don’t post pictures of my holidays. I write stuff like that.

I didn’t post it because it was too sad or too poorly constructed (although it was both of those things) but because somehow I managed to incorrectly save it and lost the whole thing, like it was 2003 or something. I was very annoyed with myself because I’d spent the weekend blowing my nose and sweating through my sheets and I wanted to feel as though I’d done something. But I hadn’t done anything; I hadn’t even been able to write about not doing anything.

I did think about writing though, and how it is yet another part of my life that seems to be drying up and withering away this year, slowly and softly. I can’t believe I used to post here three or four times a week. I can’t believe I used to write such personal things—I can’t believe it so much that I’m embarrassed to even link to any of those things. I can’t believe what I used to find worthy of writing about, and with what interest and happiness and sense of purpose I used to write about it.

That’s all gone, and all I do is write about how sad I am—and trust me, I am really, really sad. I am also frustrated, and forgetful, and restless, and unsure, and scared. I’m very tired, pretty much all the time. I am bored of writing those words, over and over again, here. I am bored of how sad and tired I am, and the only thing more annoying than being sad and tired, is writing about being sad and tired. (Or, of course, reading about being sad and tired).

I want to read more than I want to write. I want to watch more than I want to act. I want to consume more than I want to produce. I want to hide more than I want to display, and I want to separate more than I want to participate.

It’s a Saturday evening in spring; we turn the clocks forward tomorrow. It’s a year ago exactly since I got the call from my sister. I finish what I still think about as my new job in a fortnight, and I’m going out to a steakhouse dinner tonight because I feel like seeing some friends and can’t take another night on the couch, even though I’m not super keen on steak. I watched a good documentary series about New Zealand birds last night. After I write whatever will be the last sentence in this post, I’m going to bake a batch of cookie dough so I can bring something to the other volunteers at the Bait House tomorrow.

I want to write something else, something different, something better than just how tired and sad I am and how everything is so confusing and weirdly impossible, but I can’t, I don’t—I write this instead.