The thing is . . . I’ve been fighting this fight nearly my whole life and just realized it a month ago. I realize a lot now, and in my head everything seems clear. But the outside world isn’t always as kind and understanding. The outside world doesn’t get that you can have a decent salary and still be sad. Still feel tired. Still have massive amounts of panic running through your body at every second of every day (yes, even **especially** Saturdays).
You don’t have to get “why”.
You don’t have to “get” anything, and quite frankly, I shouldn’t have to break down why “things are rough” right now in my world. Growing is hard. Fake friends are hard to leave — old habits die hard. Being “brave” and “understanding” comes with a lot of obligation to carry the weight of everyone else just because I have a “good” job with a “good” salary and “good” benefits. Which apparently means “her shit is so OK right now”.
When did the people surrounding me start defining themselves by mediocrity and contentment? My whole life I’ve been told I’d never be happy as a writer because I’d be broke my entire life. I’m not “broke”; but I’m not “well-off”. However, this isn’t my end, and this isn’t where I want to stay. I have goals and aspirations; they may not be concretely defined but I know I’m motivated and am not OK with a life of settling; with work or friendships. And to everyone who said I’d be “dirt poor” if I pursued a career revolving around writing . . . HAAAAAY.
Here’s the thing: my paycheck doesn’t define me, and it doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings; that I am invincible; that I don’t carry the emotional weight others drop off on my shoulders that helps them feel lighter.
I carry that. I don’t know how to not. I don’t know how to explain that I do when you ask.
I don’t know how to answer “what’s wrong; I still don’t get what’s wrong” when it’s met with “…but you make x dollars…”
I’m sick of hearing money makes everything that’s hard in life “a lot easier”.
Money can get you things to numb up, sure.
That’s a nice bandaid solution that lasts as long as you’re on that spending high, that literal high; what have you.
Then you crash.
You sober up.
You have money in your bank; sure. But you feel empty; alone; lost.
You feel tired.
I’m not going to get into everything behind the “sad” and “tired” and “panicked” (bc TL;DR); but this entire “rant” derived from stumbling upon this article that gives pretty great insight into the underlying root of the phrase, “I’m tired”.
So . . . here it is. Thank you, The Mighty, for putting this piece together.