The Gang's All Here!
Issue 017: Toni's grapples with burnout, survival, and faltering hope
Exhausted isn't even the word. These days, it's just me, my partner, my therapist, and my psychiatrist against the world. I'd like to say my writing is a part of this close-knit Avengers-like team that I have in my corner, as it sometimes is, but as of late, it's grown harder and harder to express myself in a form that usually frees me. I don't think my pain fuels me. I've been experiencing an anguish so strong that my spirit feels viciously suspended in the air, with no gravitational pull keeping me connected and grounded to the earth. I'm merely floating in space, an unsettling feeling I cannot control. I know the way I'm hurting can be a source, the muse, the drive for creativity, and I have experienced this impassioned impulse to make something artistic out of my pain, but it's usually long after the fact. As I suffer in the present, I can only find myself grasping at any and everything that will help me feel okay and straighten up while this unbearable load of thoughts and feelings weigh on my back, and a lot of the time, that doesn't include writing. I even feel a smidge guilty admitting this now, but anhedonia has returned. I'm burnt out, and that's okay.
I've slipped into a careless state, succumbing to my general ennui and shuffling into the weeks, often baffled by what day it actually is instead of what my mind has remembered last. The days feel much shorter now; once I wake, I return to the dark in a blink. It's a contradictory dilemma, my current disposition towards my struggles, both simultaneously confusing and clear as day. Sometimes, I feel fine, but that's mostly because I choose the static. I wish I could say there's something within that will force me to thrive, but it feels unimaginable as the quality of life for the working class in America is simply insane. Little to big, in the grand scheme of things, everything is designed to make our lives a living hell. It'd be suspicious if I wasn't going mad or experiencing adverse effects from our reality, a spine-chilling kind of delusion I would rather not partake in, even if it means I'll be tormented and, in this case, stuck.
My tax dollars aren't repairing the ever-disappointing public transit that I must use, reworking the safety net programs that deny those who really need it, or funding hurricane relief, but it's funding an incredibly lethal police force and military, supporting bloodthirsty countries that are passionately erasing people as if they never existed because hey, the U.S. is one and the same. From my job, I have an aggravatingly clear view of the Apple store with a never-ending line of sheep purchasing a new phone made of conflict minerals, sullied by the blood of the Congolese people. I buy groceries with a credit card, microplastics are having a field day in my body, and everyone around me, including myself, has filled out hundreds of job applications to possibly, just maybe, have more dollars to put toward better living conditions, with no avail. I could go on and on and on. The exasperation, fatigue, and hopelessness aren't much of a surprise, as life never slows down amongst these truths.
Last month, I watched Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts, a documentary highlighting the U.S. government's complicity in the great lack of protection for those residing in New Orleans as Hurricane Katrina hit and the ensuing devastation. I spent most of the over 4-hour runtime weeping, quite in shock by the continued evil of the nation I inhabit. The magnitude of the man-made systemic errors that caused such suffering is soul-crushing, further proving that while this country has always been capable of better, it's plainly not what they want for us; that was never in the cards. As our progressively worsening climate issues are ignored, natural disasters will hit even harder, and underdeveloped and unmaintained infrastructure will fail to withstand the damage. Katrina wasn't the first to shake communities to their core and isn't the last, but prevention and aftercare remain inefficient from an overqualified system.
There was a part in the documentary that really stuck with me: Writings calling out government officials and cries for help, all expressing the sorrow and anger of community members spray painted on abandoned and destroyed homes. On one house, the phrase "hope is not a plan" held a haunting presence, still lingering in my mind since I've seen it. Hope will be necessary indefinitely as it's a reason to keep trying, fighting, and living. Hope leads you to tomorrow. Hope has a way of spontaneously moving mountains, especially when paired with action, but survival can't be based on hope alone. It's become taboo to have a loss of faith, a moment of weakness, with the light at the end of the tunnel seemingly blurry and fading out. I feel no remorse in experiencing this, as the heft of the world can be merciless; life is unfair regardless of the infinite hope pouring out of a soul. That won't prevent any of us from possessing it or returning to it after a decline, but still, I want more for us. Still, hope is not a plan.
I find myself repeating the same things, voicing the same frustrations, and coming to the same conclusions daily. I'm constantly going in circles, a constant screaming in my head. I remain alert and watchful of the state of our world. I remain hopeful as best as I can as this power wanes, and while I yearn for improvement, I can recognize how bleak everything truly is, and it's staggering. I'm not passing judgment on anyone who can't make it out of bed, anyone who can't make out a sentence on a page, anyone devoid of stir and spiraling. I'm right there with you.
I told my therapist that just about all of the serious turning points in my life came about from exhaustion. Every time change happened, it was because I grew so tired that I had absolutely no choice but to do something about whatever was eating me up inside. While I feel utterly drained and powerless at this very moment, I know my hunger will someday resurface and with great vigor. What I enjoy in life, my simple pleasures, my outlets for coping with hardship will once again join the team of somethings that produce energy and excitement to show up for myself and others in need, and I will once again believe that good will derive from that. I don't live in a place where the fight has ever ended and where my fight is of unimportance. I'm needed.
I'm tired, and I really hate it, but it'll take a different form, and I'll shift into a headspace where I can overcome it. I'm weary, feeble, and barely making it by, and that's not selfish. I'm a product of my suffocating environment, and I can only try and muster the strength to get through my head that this can't be and won't be forever.
Tomorrow is a new day.
Crazy I had Amelie on the brain cause I been meaning to watch it and then I see her pop up first thing on Substack