I’ve been contemplating the nuance of exhaustion. After writing non-fiction, I feel exhausted from purging. It feels as if I’ve been carrying around huge, round metal weights that didn’t have handles. Not only did I have to carry around these painful, caustic weights but I also had to balance them all without dropping any of them. After I’ve drafted a chapter, I feel like I’ve finally set all the weights down in their proper place, where they can’t hurt anyone. I’ve secured things as best as I could. There is finally a sense of balance. Now, I can recuperate.
The exhaustion I feel after speaking with my family is quite the opposite. It is a matter of taking on the burden of weight rather than relieving one’s self of weight. I also put on literal weight when I interact with them. I end up eating unhealthy food consistently in an attempt to self-soothe. My family is comprised of people who have bottomless wells of need and pain but limited means or desire of purging these things. I am not referencing financial means, I am talking about clarity of self. If one is unhappy in one’s life, one can either make a plan and change it or accept one’s life. There’s no need to hurt unassuming people or to try to make other people miserable.