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.


  1. Dear Chiara, sometimes you have to give yourself a break. You don’t “have” to do any of these things, if you are sick – be sick, if you are sad -be sad, if you are happy – you guessed it be happy. Sometimes life isn’t about getting everything that you use to do done. Your life isn’t a schedule of things to tick off and then feel bad cos you haven’t succeeded.
    It’s just life and enjoy what you have while you have it. Or I will come down there and sort you out and trust me you don’t want that to happen. . . haha Have a nice steak.

  2. I am so sorry sweetie. About all of it. It’s been a rough year and a bit for you. (Hugs) and best wishes for less sad and tired around the corner.

  3. The frustration must be immense, you poor thing. But you are doing all the right things: volunteering for something you love, seeing friends, and yes, writing.

    It’s been so long for both of us in the blogosphere that I can tell you that I, too, don’t write the same, or about the same. Personal stories about how my friends (for whom I used their full names) have messy flats? Whining about boys I went out with two times? Gone the way of the buffalo.

    It’s natural to change your writing. So try not to fight it. And keep writing, because it is NOT boring to us, your friends and readers.

  4. I can’t imagine you eating steak. Something about it doesn’t compute.
    The Manics have a song on their album “This Is My Truth Tell Me Yours” called “My Little Empire”. It’s generally about Nicky Wire’s OCD, but this post reminded me of the lyrics – “bored of being bored, tired of being tired, sick of being sick”. The only problem is it’s THE most depressing song since The Smiths’ 1985 b-side “Drowning In The Tears Of Foppish Rabbits”. So I shan’t link it here!
    Chin up dear. It’s clearly not a time of your life you’ll look back on and go “wow SO many awesome things happened in that 12 months”. It’s also clearly a slow-boil time where there ain’t no quick fixes. All I can suggest is that emotions are cyclical, and beget themselves – doing one or two things you know you enjoy and you know you can do are the first steps out of the valley.
    Now. Are we playing an IE gig in December or what?

  5. I’m sorry, sweetie. Thinking of you. <3

  6. Chiara,

    I just read some of your blog posts and learned some of what you have been going through. I am so sorry.

    I am thinking of you… and also I prayed for you just now.

    With love,


  7. Jedi hugs from far away, lady. You are so loved.

  8. We’re all here waiting with you until what you want becomes possible.

  9. I recently came out of a long period of sadness. It was like finally breaking the surface of the sea; I breathed deep the air and I was so glad, so relieved. During the long period, though, nothing could have helped me get there any faster. Hard as it was, I had to live it, feel it, even — yes, though I hate to say this — wallow in it in some way. It was mine, I owned it, I hated it, but it was what I had to live in that time. I felt bad, I apologized over and over to the loves of my life who of course stuck with me and were patient and listened. I felt stupid, embarrassed, but I couldn’t do anything other than be what I had to be. I cried a lot, I moped a lot, I talked to people and tried to absorb their love and their care and their positivity. But in the end, as I said, it was me. You will rise to the surface and break through again, that I know for sure. But I don’t believe you can make it happen, or will it, or even wish it. This is you now. It won’t always be. Try to be patient with yourself. Try to take care, in whatever little ways you can. And just hang in there until you are fully breathing the air again.