Am I Too Tired or Are You a Nachzehrer?

I'm always saying this...

... but I have to be honest, these last few days I'm too tired to fight. Too tired to care what lies beneath the facade. To tired to deal with your irksome bullshit. I just want to get something real, something of value, accomplished. Preferably without you trying to water it down, push it away, or ignore the realities of it.

It kills me that your voices are among the most common I hear in my head now. I let that happen, I know. But still, why am I giving you valuable air time in my mind? Why do you get to drain my energy without paying for it in some way?

The worrisome part isn't that I'm just tired, it's that I think you've made me start to not care. Not caring is the absence of hope, and that's soul-sucking. But that might explain why no matter how much sleep I get I'm not rested, no matter how well I eat I'm nauseated, or no matter how I try to reign myself I'm still running (even in my sleep).

The more you say it's impossible, the more I want to work to prove it's not. Which tires me out even more.

I need to bring something tangible to fruition, to create order out of the chaos, which actually happens to be my job. I also need to keep you and your incredibly unhelpful thoughts at bay.


PS A Nachzehrer is a soul-sucking, not blood-sucking, German vampire.

While at a Meeting About the Future Which Couldn't Escape the Past

I watched as she poured salt all over her unsaid list of thoughts and frustrations, which didn't heal anything, but hurt just as much.

His Verse Ended Abruptly

Like the rest of the world I saw that Robin Williams not only died, he committed suicide today. I find his death affects me more than I would have guessed. I'm crying.

I have life-long relationship with Robin Williams. One of the earliest gifts I remember getting was a Mork action figure and egg ship. His A Night at the Met album was the first and only album my father took away from me for being too "adult." My high school friends and I created a poetry club based on Dead Poets Society. While my immediate circle of friends has changed over the years, each group has spent time watching Robin Williams films. And, perhaps most importantly, the first pair of naked breasts I ever remember seeing was in The World According to Garp when my age was still in single digits.

Yes, I'm actually crying over him. Not because he died, but because he killed himself. Because I also have a lifelong relationship with depression. What makes this so confusing is that at some of the worst times of my life his work helped get me through it. I keep wondering who made him laugh? Or more to the point, who did reach out to for laughter?

I know I shouldn't take his death to heart, but I took his life to heart, so why not this too?

For him, I offer this, The Clown's Prayer:

As I stumble through this life,
help me to create more laughter than tears,
dispense more cheer than gloom,
spread more cheer than despair.

Never let me become so indifferent,
that I will fail to see the wonders in the eyes of a child,
or the twinkle in the eyes of the aged.

Never let me forget that my total effort is to cheer people,
make them happy, and forget momentarily,
all the unpleasantness in their lives.

And in my final moment,
may I hear You whisper:
"When you made My people smile,
you made Me smile."

-Anonymous-