I didn’t sleep well Sunday into Monday. I woke up with a sore back and high fasting blood sugar. I ate a leftover mini-quiche then felt nauseous and had intense diarrhea. The Metformin is like that.
I scrolled through my twitter feed to find more bad news, more negativity, more sad pictures, and more reminders that humans have an amazing capacity for hatred and selfishness.
I shut it all off and did a full face of makeup so I could film a video and create content for my Instagram feed. I logged onto Facebook while my lash glue dried. More bad news waiting there. Closed the app and applied my lashes.
I filmed my video then felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over me. My heart felt heavy and these last few days especially I can tell I’m a little more sensitive than usual. I’m getting the hang of this living thing and I already know what’s happening.
I took a two hour nap. Woke up to a headache, logged into Instagram to engage with my followers, saw a familiar face and name pop up in my feed. A woman who looked like a girl I used to know and had a similar name stared out at me from my phone screen. I knew better, but I Googled the person she reminded me of. Found their Facebook page. Then found several other Facebook pages, all connected to people I used to know and used to love.
These people are strangers to me now and for good reason. I don’t hate them but I don’t like them, nor do I respect them. I’m reminded that I once belonged to that belief system and I once lived and breathed all that hatred too. I’m a totally different person now. And they haven’t changed even a bit.
I cried. I cried into my Instagram stories about how frustrating it is to be reminded that people who once knew you and loved you wouldn’t even consider you human now because of who you love and who you are. I once thought they were such good people. Now I realize it’s only because I was one of them…not because I was just a human deserving of love, like every other human.
These people are incapable of acceptance or kindness. And they’re the type of people running this world and making all the decisions. And so I cried because it’s not just about them; it’s about the whole damn mess.
I have outrage fatique. And it’s almost July. In July I will be 33. And then it will be August. And on August 6th my mother will have been dead for two years. I hate my birthday. I hated it before but I really hate it now. And I can’t remember exactly which day my Mom died. Was it the 2nd? And her funeral was the 6th? Or was it the 6th? My memories are running together. I should remember this better. I should be better at this.
I should be better at this. That’s a recurring theme. If I stop caring about what’s happening in the world around me, I’m a failure. If I get emotionally exhausted from caring and fighting and arguing and crying and praying, I’m failing.
I should be better at this. And yet I am so, so tired.
Mama said there’d be days like this. There’d be days like this, my mama said.