We’re all tired.

I sleep a lot. Around 9 hours a night. Except when I’m really tired; then it’s more like 11 hours. And I exist in a world where people say things like “Well, I got more than 4 hours last night so I’m feeling pretty good.” You can’t see my face right now, but imagine Jim Halpert, the character from The Office, staring directly into the camera as if he’s asking for confirmation that he’s not crazy and whatever just happened is insane. That’s how I feel.

I’ve always slept a lot. As a kid, I got a solid 10 hours if I went to bed at bedtime, which I usually did because I was a sweet little angel, obviously. But my relationship to sleep got complicated when I got sick. That’s a familiar story to anyone with a chronic illness, I’m sure. Suddenly, sleep didn’t make me feel better. I didn’t reboot overnight and wake up free from annoying glitches. I woke up after 12 hours feeling like a college kid who went out four nights in a row and hadn’t gotten 5 straight hours all week. I tried sleeping less for a while to test out the hypothesis that too much sleep was messing me up, but discovered that if I cut it short my muscles would ache all day like I’d started Cross Fit overnight.

So I slept, but I felt frustrated by it. I still feel frustrated by it. Why do I have to sleep so much? And why doesn’t it ever work? It’s frustrating to spend so much time on something that is necessary, but woefully ineffective.

When I hear things like “I stayed up til 4 working on that paper because I got too drunk the night before and blah blah blah blah,” I want to grab these undergrads by the shoulders and shake them like Adam Sandler did to that grade schooler in Billy Madison. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO FEEL MISERABLE ALL THE TIME. DON’T CHOOSE IT!” That’s what I would yell at them. Just scream it right into their faces. Because their bodies could actually feel good. And they wouldn’t even have to miss out on all that much to reach an effective balance that lets them sleep and study and go out. They could feel great. It’s possible for them. It’s not for me.

I’m trying so hard and sleeping so much and struggling to get myself out of bed this week. Not because I went out drinking, or stayed up late to write a paper. Just because my body can’t figure out what the hell it’s doing. Don’t get me wrong; it’s doing its best and I’m grateful for this body and its abilities and the fact that it tries So. Dang. Hard. But on weeks like this, when I sleep and sleep and sleep and everyday activities turn into Herculean tasks meant to test my fortitude, I get a little crabby. Maybe a smidge bitter. I get impatient with a culture that encourages healthy people to run themselves ragged and to complain every waking moment that they’re tired. They don’t have to be tired.

There are health fairs on campus every semester that try to encourage students to listen to their bodies and take care of themselves. They have meditation sessions and massages, and they give out resources and information on sleep hygiene. I already know all of that stuff. I know the tips and tricks and methods. I would be the most well-rested, self-caring healthy person, I’m telling you. I would take full advantage of being able to feel good. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

I guess I don’t really want healthy students to figure out they could feel amazing, like, all the time. Being tired is something we have in common. I should hold onto that. Solidarity is nice, even when they still don’t understand what it feels like to be can’t-get-out-of-bed tired for no discernible reason for so long you start to wonder if it’ll ever end. And even though I know that they’re saying “I’m so tired. Like, guys, so tired” right now, they’ll be out with their friends tonight or up until 4 am watching The Office and I’ll be in bed, because I’m so tired, like, it’s unreal, guys. I’m so tired.

If you’re a healthy college student reading this, please know that I don’t really want to scream in your face (well, kinda). You do a lot and you’re doing your best. Forgive me. I’m just jealous of your body. For my readers with chronic illnesses, do you feel the same? What goes through your head when you hear “I’m tired”? Tweet me @brightandweird

About Today

Sometimes I wake up with pain in my face and forehead like my skull is contracting. The running joke in my family is that an alien life-form in gestating in my brain and I’m experiencing Braxton Hicks contractions. It’ll pass. (Until the day the infant alien bursts forth.) Anyway, I woke up to false alien baby labor this morning.

The best thing to do on days like this is to stay in bed and watch some tv. Maybe take a shower or a bath at some point, since water always feels good. But no pressure. Just take it easy. Give my poor head a break because it’s clearly going through something.

I don’t do what is best, though, because I am determined. I force myself out of bed. I make to do lists–multiple lists of things I have to get done today–or else. Never mind that I can barely get through writing the list. I stare into space trying to think of the word for those little sticks with the soft ends that clean your ears…what are those things? I know I know this. What’s the….?

When I look down at my phone it’s been fifteen minutes, I’ve written three items, and I have no idea what those stupid cardboard fluffy sticks are called but I know I need to buy some of them. The two other items on my list are read everything on each syllabus for my classes and write every paper due this semester. Not really, but it might as well be that unnecessarily ambitious.

Going to the store like this is a bad idea. I’ve done it before. I survived. But it’s not a pleasant experience. I am Dory and I can’t remember that important thing. I make a plan in my head; go to toiletries, then grocery, then leave. But I forget it as soon as I’m in amongst the people and noise and choices. So many choices. Why are there four different kinds of sticks with cottony stuff? That’s too many. And my skull starts to constrict in a wave of pain and I don’t care about Q-tips. Ah, Q-tips! They’re called Q-tips. Anyway, I don’t want Q-tips. I don’t want to be in the store. I want to go home and climb into bed. Why am I out of bed anyway? Whose idiotic idea was this?

“Do you need any help?” a shelf stocker asks me, which is unusual because the staff in this store are not particularly helpful generally. But the stocker seems amused by me. That’s when I realize I have been in this aisle for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes looking at Q-tips. So I left the store without buying anything.

My bookbag in the front seat reminds me that I’m supposed to get stuff done today, but it’s not going to happen. I know that now. My determination is broken. So I drive home mad. I’m mad at myself for not being able to pick between four kinds of Q-tips. Or finish a simple to-do list. Or work on an actually important assignment. Or write a blog post about having a chronic illness.

I’m mad at myself for not being able to manage better, even though this is the only one day and I’ve gone a couple weeks without wasting an entire day in bed. I’m mad that any day is wasted. I’m trying to make up time here! I have to use every day. I have to finish to-do lists.

But by the time I get into bed, I’m too exhausted and my pillows are too comfy for me to be mad anymore. I’m pretty sure the alien baby has changed positions because now my skull is threatening to split open at my temple. So I can’t think about a paper or write a post or remember to eat today.

Tomorrow I won’t be mad at myself for today. I’ll be a little frustrated by the additional work I have to do. And embarrassed about that whole Q-tip fiasco. But I won’t be mad. Because a bad day is a bad day. I’ve been through bad weeks and bad months and bad years. I came out the other side of a bad decade.

Bad days are days I don’t get back. That’s true and it sucks. Nothing gets done (except parts of this blog post). I don’t see my friends or make new connections. Occasionally I miss deadlines and the type A side of me dies a thousand deaths in agony. But mostly the world goes round and I binge an entire series on Netflix (only actually watching some of the episodes because the light from laptop screens is refracted evil). And right now, in a moment of rational clarity, I know bad days are not my fault. I can’t control them. I avoid my triggers, but they’ll happen anyway. So what’s the point of being mad at me? It’s just mean. I’m trying my best here.

I know I won’t remember this revelation the next time I wake up feeling like my cranium is being squeezed from the outside while stretching on the inside. I’ll worry I’m going to waste a whole day again. I’ll convince myself that everything needs to be done and it has to be done today. So next time, all I have to do is read this post, try not to roll my eyes–which will hurt like hell–and surrender. It’s just one day.