Perfect Exhaustion

Written by Emma on December 21st, 2007

So I’m here typing once again, instead of being asleep like I should be. Why this time? I don’t want to go to Britain. It’s been a long while since I was eager to go, but right now I’m just dreading it. There are many reasons, but one is resonating, and has been resonating, so strongly right now.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of life. Which is sad, considering I’m young and 21, and ‘the world is my oyster’ – whatever that means. I don’t even like oysters. I’m tired of getting up in the morning. I’m tired of being alone, tired of lying in planes for hours, tired of navigating layovers and flight changes, tired of packing and unpacking, tired of trying to be a long-distance big sister and daughter to people whose lives function perfectly well without me, tired of fading friends, tired of explaining my life story to anyone who talks to me for more than 5 minutes, tired of being a ‘child of divorce’, tired of being strong, tired of psychoanalysing my family for my family, tired of surviving the experience of my family, tired of going to bed every night, tired of having to feed my grumbling stomach multiple times a day, tired of trying to figure myself out, tired of adjusting to change, tired of looking for stability, tired of the prospect of ‘future’, tired of my own past, tired of the present, tired of trying to please everyone, tired of being nagged, tired of being warned, tired of finding lack of happiness in too many places.

It’s only two weeks, but it will be exhausting. I will be yelled at, lectured, and generally emotionally abused by my father. I will try to catch up with the ongoing lives of my younger siblings. I will generally be isolated from the world, and probably be yelled at for reading too much. I will be yelled at for a lot of things. I will be tricked and lectured, and miss my cat and my privacy. I will do my best to comfort the young ones, as I have done for so much of my short life, from the yelling and the arguments, and the general hurt my family routinely inflicts upon itself.

But who am I to complain of anything. My father is rich, and I have travelled a lot. Certainly, my life is perfect.

I am so tired of being me.

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