You are tired,
I've disappeared again, I know. It's because I never feel like I have anything to say apart from I'm sad and I'm tired and this whole situation is so difficult and we just keep failing and failing and failing to do any better at anything, and all of those thoughts are simultaneously boring and depressing and who isn't thinking them right now, anyway?
The strain hits everywhere. I have nightmares every night that leave me damp-cheeked and keening aloud when I wake up from them; my kid got so much joy from looking at the playground as we rode past on a weekend bike ride that I wept about that, too. I'm mourning for myself and my friends and my family, for a deep fear that I'm not going to see my American family again, for the utter lack of creativity on the part of leadership when it comes to the intersections of parenthood and womanhood and education and economic distress. I'm sad. I'm tired. We're hurting in all the very precise ways that make it harder than usual to be creative and caring.
I remember, back in March, talking about the fall as if it was somehow obvious and inevitable that we'd be back to normal. Of course we would; no way this could go on that long. These days, my expectations for a return to something approaching normal is more in next fall's territory, and even that feels optimistic. How can it possibly be any sooner?
And I can, I suppose, continue plugging along for that much time. We've done it this long; what's another week or month or year? The minutes and days are hard one at a time. We'll do it if we have to. We'll do what it takes to survive. But we're going to be so, so tired the whole time.
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