Posts Tagged ‘exhaustion’

Long Days

March 6, 2018

I don’t feel much like writing, truth be told.

Habit I suppose.

To sit and write.

Although I’m semi obsessed with a playlist I’ve been making on Spotify.

My head’s just not in it right now, the writing not the music.

I sang my heart out driving home tonight.

Good thing there wasn’t much traffic out there, I did not need to be witnessed in my crazy torch song belt out.

It was a long day.

Mondays are and I have to remind myself of that.

Supervision in the morning was intense.

I had to terminate a client today so there was a lot to cover and I have another termination on Thursday.

It’s tender work.

I’m super glad for my supervisor, he’s a really good match for what I need to be learning.

I have seven weeks left with him.

ON one hand I am rather glad for that.

To not have to be in Hayes Valley every Monday morning at 9 a.m. is going to be a relief, to avoid rush hour morning commuter, that would be divine.

I will miss his guidance though, he’s hyper intelligent and has an amazing way of showing me how therapy works.

He also believes that I am a good therapist, kick ass in his words, and that’s nice.

Although I would probably never say that to him when he’s got a critique of my technique or the work I’m doing with clients, I think he’d give me quite the look, “hey, don’t you remember when you said I was a kick ass therapist?”

No?

Heh.

We did a fuck load of work today it felt like two sessions packed into one.

I covered a lot of client material.

And then I got assigned a new client.

Whew.

My head was a little spun today.

Distracted and not really present.

I did try to get grounded and I was able to sneak in a shopping trip to the grocery store in between work and supervision, which was so helpful, I shouldn’t have to do any more shopping before the upcoming school weekend.

Gah.

I am exhausted thinking about that.

I’m not ready.

I have to write another paper and I have a bit more reading to do.

I am tired.

And it’s Monday.

And.

The mom reached out and asked me to come in early again on Wednesday, so that’s a ten-hour day.

After a twelve-hour day, today, an eleven hour day tomorrow, which might morph to a twelve hour day, I have a homework assignment to speak with a licensed MFT and that’s tomorrow after I wrap with clients.

Sigh.

I’ll get it all done.

And maybe going in early on Wednesday isn’t such a bad thing, I can take my laptop with me and do some work while the baby is napping.

Fingers crossed that neither of the older kids are home sick from school.

If I just have the baby for the first half of the day I could actually do some homework at work while he naps.

I did manage to get a little bit of reading done today and I found another source of material for the annotated bibliography I have to put together for the class.

This is the kind of crap I’m not good at.

Actually.

That’s not true.

I am good at most academic work, I just don’t find this interesting and when I am bored with a topic I’m not compelled to do the work.

But.

Well.

Fuck.

It’s a required and I’m almost halfway there, halfway through this final semester.

I’m ready for a break.

I know.

I know.

I just applied to a PhD program, but hey, there’s the summer to come.

Still waiting on my friend’s parents to get back to her, by the way, regarding buying tickets to Paris.

I stopped looking.

I’m just going to sit and wait until she reaches out.

I’m willing to spend what needs to be spent.

I don’t need to obsess on when I buy them.

I have realized though that I won’t be able to do the dream work seminar and retreat that I was going to go on withe some friends in my cohort, it would mean unpaid time off and I’m just not going to do that right now.

I will have to take unpaid time off if I get into the PhD program as there’s a retreat that starts out the program in the fall, but aside from that I really won’t be taking any other time off except for when the family is on vacation.

Who am I to complain?

I’m going to get five weeks off paid.

I won’t mind having an unpaid week off to pursue my educational goals.

I can hardly believe it sometimes.

I got notification today that my last set of transcripts were sent out to the school today.

Which means they department will have all my materials soon and can process my application.

Shit.

Ugh.

I almost forgot.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I need to apply to the Diversity Scholarship.

It’s five thousand dollars.

I can really use that.

Five thousand less in student loans is nothing to sneeze at.

When the fuck am I going to get that done?

The application deadline is March 15th.

That gives me ten days.

Sigh.

I’ll get it done.

Oof.

I am tired.

I was going to go to yoga in the morning before therapy.

I think I may skip it and just let myself get some rest.

Even just a half hour is going to do me well.

And with that.

I am going to bid you adieu.

I am tuckered out.

Seriously.

 

 

Stood Up

July 17, 2016

But not angry about it.

In fact.

I was rather relieved.

I sort of expected the guy to stand me up.

And since.

I had spent the previous half hour slowly sobbing into a puddle at Tart to Tart with my person and doing some inventory.

I was indeed relieved.

I was a hot mess.

Fact is, I still am.

Which happens, I forget, despite my exhortations to the universe to have a magical and amazing Saturday.

Instead it was just tender and raw, or it wasn’t, I was, I am.

I just have to change some stuff and I don’t feel comfortable with it.

Fear.

Fuck everything and run.

Or.

Face everything and recover.

I got some big prideful pants on right now and they are not serving me at all.

I have been having some issues with work, not being able to set a boundary, hoping that instead it will magically happen.

That somehow my employer will read my mind and know that I need a break.

But.

Nobody’s a fucking mind reader and people are too busy thinking about themselves, hey, look at me, I’m thinking about myself right now, and nobody knows what I need, except.

Well.

Fuck.

Me.

So.

I’m not getting the kind of break I need at work.

And I feel appalled to admit it, that I’m not some fucking super hero who can do it all.

I can’t.

I’ve been trying.

I know that I am owed a break and I don’t know how to ask for it or to express that I need a break from the whole family, not just the kids.

It’s something I keep going back to and feeling this horrid shame that I need something from my job other than the paycheck.

That to do my job well I have to get more of a break.

That being in the house with any kind of responsibility to it is not a break, it doesn’t matter that I have done it in the past, rolled along, taken my break when the kid is sleeping and sometimes the nap is long and it is lovely and sometimes the nap is short and hey, as a nanny I just roll with it.

But the family I work for, work’s from home and I feel like I have to be on at all times, that I am always being observed and it’s fucking exhausting.

And I keep saying.

Everything is fine, fine, fine.

But.

It’s not.

See, I know my job’s hard, and the people I work with, not my employers, but the people I do do the deal with, know it’s hard, a lot of friends and my school cohort know it’s a hard job. But the parents, they don’t see it that way.

Or maybe they do, I mean, I can’t read their mind either.

I just know that being in an environment in which the parents are always there is like being constantly supervised and scrutinized and I’m just not in a good spot with it at the moment.

I didn’t get out at all from the house this past week, except once to the farmer’s market with they boys, I didn’t go for a walk, I didn’t get to take them to the playground, I didn’t have respite or the relief that I find when I am out of the house and not under the eye of the parents or the monitors and camera’s.

I also know, acutely, that so much of this is also of my own making, that I need to speak up.

I have once.

It was really hard and the parents had a hard time hearing what I said and I got what I asked for, but it went away, slow and sure, and now I’m back at that point where I wonder if it’s just not time to go back to working with babies again.  Or have the conversation once again, I need a break, that I’m not getting enough structure to allow myself the flexibility to the job as well as I could be.

“There are so many jobs out there,” she said to me today, “so many.”

I have to do some more writing.

She suggested I write out exactly what I want and then just say it, regardless of consequence.

Fear says, oh conflict, oh confrontation, oh shit, you’ll lose your job and wind up being abandoned and alone and homeless in the park with a cat.

Fuck off.

I am so sick of that fear and I am so tired of doing this same fucking work.

So.

Change.

I have to change.

My employers don’t have to change.

I have to change.

I also have to lay off the beating myself up about it.

It doesn’t help.

I hate feeling tender and vulnerable and asking for what I need leads to those feelings.

I suspect because I had a lot of denial around my needs during times when I needed to have things met.

The basic things, shelter, food, clothes, love, nurturing, unconditional support.

I got what I got and it was good enough.

I am good enough and I don’t have to look to my job to be my joy or my identity.

I also get to practice in this relationship whatever it is that God needs me to be working on.

There is stuff here.

Obviously.

I’m in the job until I learn what I need to learn.

I am in the job until I fail to be of service to it.

Ironic that I can’t be of good service if I’m not taking care of myself, so the uncomfortable task of self-searching and being open for something new, whether it’s a new attitude and approach to this job or it’s looking for a job that will fit my needs better.

I need to know what my needs are.

I can surmise that the discomfort of not asking for a break is rapidly becoming harder to bear than the discomfort of not taking said break.

I am not a super hero.

I can’t be a super nanny.

I don’t want to burn out and I can’t be the best nanny if I’m nursing resentments.

All of them pretty much aimed at myself.

I’m a sitting duck.

I’m tired of shooting at myself.

I give up God.

Got some guidance?

I’ll take it.

Thanks man, I’m tired of learning this lesson.

I surrender.

Which.

In some circles is considered going over to the winning side.

I rather like the way that sounds.

The winning side is where it’s at.

Seriously.

 

Punked

May 2, 2015

But not for long.

I made it through the week and that is saying something.

I changed or something changed and it all changed.

It was still a tiring week though and I am grateful that I have the weekend off and although a bit disappointed to find out that my person is not available to meet again this week, I will get to see some friends and head over to the East Bay to see my dear heart who just had a baby a few weeks back.

I still get to be of service and I get to hang out with friends.

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday.

I’m not 100% sure how things are going to fall out tomorrow.

Suffice to say that I’m going to get picked up either here or in the Inner Sunset around 2p.m. and then accompany my friend to North Berkeley where we will be seeing the mama and the baby with a few other friends and doing the deal.

It’s nice to take the deal over to the new mom.

I feel very grateful that I get to help out.

In whatever small way I can, which was really, just making the time to do so and contacting a few people on the phone.

You know, that thing that everyone stares at but rarely seems to talk on anymore.

I saw someone make texting motions to indicate a letter she recently wrote someone and I had to take a pause.

First.

How long can the letter be if you are typing it out with your thumbs?

Second.

That I even knew what she was referring to.

“Oh, you’re one of those people now,” an old friend said to me when I flipped open my new cell phone and took her number.

I was very proud of my old Sprint flip phone and I had it for quite some time.

Until I dropped it in the toilet at Tosca.

Oops.

No need to really elaborate on what I was doing in the stall, it was not peeing, I assure you, and how flummoxed I was when I fished it out.

I had just placed a call and my dealer would be rapidly swinging through North Beach to make his delivery.

He always rang me and I would come out from where ever I was and hop in the passenger side door and we would chit-chat for a few minutes as he drove around the block.

Catch up.

You know.

Like friends do.

Friends who deal drugs to you at any hour of day or night and make a nice fat income off you.

“I don’t know why he’s calling me,” I told her frantic on the phone.

“I don’t owe him any money,” I continued.

I always find myself grateful for that, I never asked for fronted drugs and I never copped unless I had money.

Which was part of the problem at the end.

“I don’t have a problem with cocaine,” I told my room-mate in a huff.

I had overheard him explaining to a friend of his who was visiting (who had happened to get me mighty high at the End Up the prior weekend) that I had a problem.

They were smoking cigarettes in the kitchen, adjacent to my room, and whispering in gossipy undertones about why I was still in my room at four in the afternoon.

You would be too if you hadn’t gone to bed for three days.

Please.

When I next saw him I had my words, “I don’t have a problem,” I continued, zooming into his space as he was frothing milk for a cappuccino, “my problem is that I don’t have enough money to afford doing the amount I want to do.”

Um.

Yeah.

Mission Control.

We have a problem.

But I did quit.

And I was shocked to get the message from my dealer.

He wanted to “talk” to me about something.

I was walking up Valencia Street where it ends at Mission and heading home towards my new little tiny rented room at the foot of Bernal Hill on Kingston at 30th.

And I was freaking out.

“First,” she said on the phone, “you don’t have to call him back.”

“But what does he want?” I cried, “I don’t get it, why is he calling me?”

She laughed uproariously.

I did not know what was so funny.

“Carmen, honey, he probably wants to know if you want any blow, he’s probably wondering where his good customer has gone off to.”

The rooms and I ain’t never going back.

“Oh,’ I said.

“OH!” I cried out, “of course, that makes perfect sense.”

I never did call him back.

I realize tonight that yes I am tired.

But not that kind of tired.

Not the kind of tired that was soaked into my bones.

The constant repetition of I’m not going to do it, I’m doing it, I don’t want to be doing this, why am I doing this, please stop doing this, I’m killing myself, don’t do it anymore, I’m not going to do it anymore, it wasn’t that bad, I can do it just this weekend, it’s a three-day holiday, I’ll just get a couple of grams, it’s not a problem, I don’t have a problem.

Fuck me.

I have a problem.

And I am ok with it.

I have a solution today.

So, tired.

Yeah, sure, it was a long week, but it was a week full of joy, yes some exhaustion and some tears, and some frustration, but also a burgeoning of flexibility in my schedule, an unleashing of wild pink hair, a happiness to have rent paid, my student loans paid off for the month, and friends that I get to see and a new baby in the mix.

I don’t mind getting a little tired to have that.

As well as reconnecting with an old friend.

Who was swell when I said, I got to go, friend, I’m beat, the groceries in the bag got to get in the fridge and I have to get on my bicycle and pedal out to the beach.

And that is alright too.

A quiet Friday night in is not a bad thing at all.

I’ll be ready for the rest of the weekend and refreshed.

Because tomorrow.

I’m sleeping in!

A God Box

March 25, 2015

And a hot shower.

Then.

Everything got right with my world.

I was exhausted after work today.

Exhausted.

I don’t even want to think about how tired I was.

I was meeting with someone at Church Street Cafe prior to going to the 7:15 p.m. thing where I do that thing, and while riding my bicycle up 17th Street I thought, Jesus, sweet fucking Jesus, I am tired.

If I am this tired, on a Tuesday, how am I ever going to have a boyfriend?

How the fuck am I going to get through graduate school.

I forget that, “this too shall pass.”

Tired is not a state I am good in.

I suspect that no one is.

The littlest guy is a heavy napper, bless his little sweet soul, but like a lot of moms I have worked with, the parent gets worried that a long nap equals a long night of not going to bed on time and thus I am admonished to wake up the monkey after a certain amount of time.

I believe this leads to some inopportune things.

First, no body likes being woken up.

I don’t.

I was woken up with a startled poke this morning.

My brain shouted at me, “holy shit, you forgot to set your alarm, get up!”

It’s true.

I had forgotten to set my alarm, not something that I do very often.

I have it set for tomorrow usually as soon as I wake up.

I just sort of automatically switch it back on.

However, on Monday’s I go in an hour and a half earlier than I do the rest of the week.  The family likes me to come in one day early and stay an extra hour to help out with errands and organizing and such.

Not a problem for me to do.

But that means I am up and going well before my set alarm for the following day.

I set the alarm on Mondays for 6:30 p.m.

The alarm on Tuesdays is set for 8 a.m.

But when I went to set it yesterday, when I thought about it, it was still before 7 a.m. and I just never got to it.

Completely spaced.

Nothing is quite so disconcerting as waking up to realize that I have not set the alarm.

I woke up at 7:59 a.m. this morning.

That was a pleasant surprise, but it was still a jarring way to wake up.

And that is the issue, I think.

The little guy gets woke up well before he’s ready and then over compensates by juicing up with adrenalin and then he’s wonky and that is what I think makes bed time at night so hard, he’s getting to worked up.

That’s my theory anyway.

I hesitate to share that with many a parent, but I might just have to.

Tomorrow is another day and I will let it play out the way it needs to, not worrying about it right now.

Especially since I am so nice and cozy and relaxed, and well, not tired at all.

When I was riding my bicycle I was close to bonking, I realize now.

Dinner for me was nearly an hour past the time I normally eat with the boys.

There was a potty emergency and instead of coming home from the park and digging into some dinner, I came home from the park and striped down the boys and hustled them into the bath.

The schedule throws them too, unfortunately, they both were ready to eat as well and so, well, bath time was lively, yo, let me tell you.

By the time I got them into pjs and had them back down stairs for dinner I was a little wonky and needed to eat.

I typically know better.

And sometimes things like this happen, but my reserves were stretched and when I was boy wrangling after dinner, dish washing, plate scraping, composting, picking up, rearranging, shoving food into my mouth when I could.

God how I hate that.

I really have grown to like sitting and eating my meals, as mind fully as possible.

I don’t always succeed in completely unplugging from my phone, but I do usually have success with sitting down to eat my meal, rather than cramming in a bite here standing up and trying to multi-task eighteen different things.

I did eat.

I did manage to get through the last hour of the day.

I did make it to Church Street Cafe and sit exhausted and near to tears, and by the end, in tears, at a table in the front and discuss with my person how I need to advocate more help from the mom and dad at certain times and how I can say that without coming off like I’m telling them that I know better, I don’t, I just have the experience I have, and asking for what I need.

“It’s not a confrontation, its communication,” he said to me.

Ah.

Yes.

I still have that old idea in my head that asking for what I want is confrontational.

Nope.

I am just communicating my needs and they have told me before they don’t want me to get burned out.

I don’t want me to get burned out either.

I sat.

Cried.

Prayed.

Held hands and let myself be held.

Then I sat for another hour and in that time felt myself come back into my body, the food had kicked in and I could feel my batteries recharged.

I even enjoyed the bike ride home.

I also notice my God box, the reading I had read out loud tonight, the one paragraph that I had as the book passed into my hands talked about putting a note in the God box and letting it go.

And rediscovering later what I had given over, usually things that I had completely forgot about–because they, the problems, had been taken care of.

I got this God box in Paris about two years ago and had not opened it since. I randomly pulled out notes, mostly about how am I going to pay my rent.

One especially that made me breathe in, knowing I had been so taken care of, even though I could not see it at all at the time, dated 1/29/13–Please help me pay February rent–I don’t know what happened, but I do know I did pay February rent, but on the 29th of January I did not have the funds and didn’t know where they were going to come from.

One slip, 3/9/13, where am I supposed to live?

I had written down Paris, New York, San Francisco?

I found centimes and Euros and pence from when I had gone to London.

I found a note I had written more recently that I had completely forgotten about–Please help me with >>>>>I am miserable–that one was dated 1/7/15.

The next I pulled out?

Dated 1/14/15 Please show me what to do about <<<<<<< I don’t know what to do.

Well.

He broke up with me just days later.

I got my answer.

So I put the bottom back on the bank, my hot pink fuchsia rabbit from the Pylones store in the Marais, and I wrote out a note to God asking him to help me be of service to the family I work for and to advocate for what I need.

And yes, I asked about a sign in regards to a boyfriend.

I damn sure am due one.

Then I got into the shower, oh hot shower, how do I love thee, let me count the ways.

I washed my hair and gave it a deep conditioning and then slathered myself in cocoa butter lotion and made a cup of tea.

I feel ever so much better.

My bunny bank God box smiling benevolently on my book shelf.

My sweet home, a home I know I am covered for rent for, a job that I know I am loved and appreciated at.

And God’s got the boyfriend, he always has.

He took care of the last one, he’ll take care of the next.

As long as I take care of myself.

And keep turning it all over.

Again and again.

And.

Again.

Ice, Ice Baby

July 29, 2014

And not the diamonds.

No.

Just the ice.

Actually, let me upgrade.

Ice, ice, peas.

Peas.

Tanks.

Fuck me man.

I am over this.

I am over it and than some.

I am just tired, is what it is.  Worn out.  Sacked out.  Beat down.

And it’s just Monday.

Eek.

I will get through, I am sure I will, but I was tired so quickly today and my ankle was much sorer than I thought it would be, is that grammatically correct, sorer?

What ever it is, it, said ankle was really tender today and all the muscles around it were in protest too, like hey, ankle, snap out of it, we be tired of carrying the brunt of the weight, get on some support.

By the end of the day I just felt like it had all been sucked right out.

And it was a lovely day with the boys, they were sweet as pie, it was great to see them, they were super lovey and I got lots of hugs and even a little down time with naps.

Not as much as I could have used, but I snatched thirty minutes of down time with a moment to put up the foot and chill.

I began to wonder if I was coming down with something, my energy just way low.

And a friend shared his experience around a broken leg and it was an aha moment for me.

He said that it was almost harder when it started to heal because he realized how weak he had become.

That is what I feel like, weak.

And I have felt weak and vulnerable for weeks now, and it just makes me tired.  I have been showing up for work and showing up for commitments and trying to go, go, go, and not like my normal pace, but just a little bit, and I can’t seem to muster it.

I know this will pass and in that there is the relief.

Today just felt interminable.

But it is a feeling and they pass, just like the days pass, time passes, the world moves on and before I can blink I will be onto something else, some other adventure to ruminate on, some other part of myself or my body or being to “improve” something to learn and grow around.

Part of the exhaustion, I must admit, seemed mental too.

I have been thinking about a story piece and working on it and the performance is tomorrow and I just could not wrap my head around practicing more for it, writing more on it, then going and doing it tomorrow after I got done with work, commuting on more public transportation down to the Mission/SOMA border, being there, then commuting back to the beach.

I really wanted to cry when I thought about it.

I had the piece on my mind all day long and wrote and rewrote it in my head and thought about re-visiting old blogs to get inspiration and it all just seemed like too much work.

I might be trying to go to fast here, the intuitive thought, perhaps next month, perhaps not tomorrow.

And.

Maybe just pause and wait until tomorrow and see how you feel.

Maybe I will feel amazing and excited and want to go perform and even if it’s just to be bad, since I have not had a lot of practice telling it, just mostly the writing of it, because bad is better than not at all.

I kept admonishing myself, just show up, that’s half the battle.

That’s where most of the work is for me.

Just showing up.

Sitting down in front of my laptop and opening up the blog page and just letting the words roll down the page like alphabet rain.

I know that part of this too is that I don’t want to disappoint someone who has made the suggestion to me to go and have this experience.  I take all her suggestions, or almost all, I am realizing, if there’s one or two I haven’t taken it’s rare.

This would be me not taking the suggestion, show up and be horrible and have fun with it.

I took the other suggestions she gave me over the weekend about getting a little notebook to jot down creative ideas, I usually carry something with me anyhow, but I picked up a special little guy just for more writing down of the stuffs.

I like the idea of being bad, well, sort of, I really want to show up and be perfect, but I know that’s not possible and the stress of being perfect is not worth the effort, I am too tired for it.

I like the idea of being of service.

“That’s what creatives are, they are being of service by putting their art into the world,” she told me Saturday.  “You are of service to the audience, it’s not about you.  What can you bring to the performance?”

My tired ass self.

I did give her a call today after I got done with work and just expressed how I was struggling with it, not so much the writing, I got that down, at least the bones and musculature, it needs a little fleshing out, but I could extemporarize it quite well, I believe; but the idea of just getting there.

That’s what was exhausting.

And it made me long for my bicycle and that bums me out, not being on my bike, really just bums me the fuck out.

I miss it so bad.

I miss the feeling of being free on the road and the wind on my face and my legs moving underneath me without pain, just moving, like pistons, clocking the distance down Lincoln or through the park.

Exercise is important to me too because it helps stave off that low-level depression that can sneak up on me when I am not as active and that could be some of this too, tiny bit of depression, woven in with a smidgen of self-pity, some physical discomfort and pain, and voila.

Perfect cocktail of “tired the fuck out.”

I will wait for tomorrow to make my final verdict.

Tomorrow is another day.

Tonight is for tea and rest.

And iced peas.


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