When I was in my worst days,
I saw tiredness in everyone’s faces.
I saw it in my mom’s eyes when my grandmother died and she became the sole person responsible for helping my grandfather cope with the loss of his wife of 55 years. Her green irises no longer sparkled and it felt like she had died too.
I saw it in my best friend’s caffeine fueled bones when her eye sockets got deeper and darker because she was too busy caring for those around her that she forgot about her own mental illness. And not in a good way.
I saw it in the left side of my dad’s face when his muscles stopped working and his mouth began to droop, because his nervous system had turned against itself and my dad was thrown into a perpetual war with GBS.
I saw it in my steam covered bathroom mirror after a too-long, too-hot shower and a girl with a too-thin nose, and too-pale skin with too much acne, and eyes that no one really knew the color of stared back at me.
It looked like she was too tired to breathe. It looked like she was too tired to wake up tomorrow.
In my worst days I saw tiredness in everyone I knew.
In my worst days, I was convinced that “tired” was the only thing humans were capable of feeling, that tired was what we were programmed to be, that if you asked someone how they were, they would say “tired”.
In my worst days, I was too tired to get out of bed and on the days that I dragged myself out from under my duvet I still felt like shit, unlike what everyone told me I would feel. I still felt tired.
In my worst days Tasha and tired were synonyms.
In my worst days, I wished for everyone to be rid of tiredness. I wished that I would never be tired again.
In my good days, the days I live in now, I am no longer tired.
In my good days, I wish for no one to feel the tiredness that used to rule my life.