be*drag*gled
/bi'drag'eld/
adjective
1. Dirty and disheveled
2. Limp and soiled, as if dragged in the mud
3. In deplorable condition
In other words...my soul.
Have you ever been so tired that you feel as if you've been dragged in the mud? That your very limbs are limp as if the puppet master has suddenly snipped your strings? You are not only unkempt, you are unmanned.
The wind has gone out of your sails. The pep is gone from your step.
Whatever cliche you wish to apply, feel free. For these past 3 months...let's be honest, these past 3 years...have proved that cliches are cliches for a reason: they are sometimes true.
I have been tired before. I remember theatre overnights where you work only half as much as you play, and you think you can keep going. That you're getting stronger as the night gets longer. You fall asleep sorting nails, a costume closet becomes the perfect place to rest your head. You cannot possibly be expected to paint one more straight line, because you are seeing double. And you crash on a shitty orange vinyl love seat from 1987 that cannot possibly contain the energy that is seeping from your skin. Only to wake up 2 hours later, stiff backed, bleary eyed, and excited to do it all again.
I once gave an Oral Term Paper for a formidable English teacher and the night before I took a nap. I could not recite one more word of my high school equivalent of a dissertation because suddenly my paper was written in Latin. Or maybe it was Pig-Latin. And I speak neither. I awoke at 7:15pm only to think it was 7:15am and that I was not only unprepared but going to be late. What came next was a melt down of Jessie Spano proportions in my kitchen floor as the relief at my sleep deprived snafu was drowned in my hysteria. I sweat through 2 shirts and a sweater the next day in anticipation of my Modern Lit class, but by the grace of Edward Albee and an army regulated thermos of coffee I made it.
I attended college, where again I only worked half as hard as I played. And I worked a lot. 2-3 shows a semester, chapel planning, vespers services, RA duty, Humanities flashcards, an entire Bible to read...yet there was always time for half price appetizers, or paint markers on car windows, facebook, speed scrabble, midnight drives, hidden Scream masks, and laughter...oh the laughter. And when I woke up the next morning and scraped myself out of bed, I thought I was tired. Hell, I was tired.
But nothing compares to the bone-deep exhaustion of draining every last ounce of your spirit into an uphill climb called poor health. Being the back bone of a household that was your childhood home when you don't even know if you can stand straight anymore. Medicine schedules, pharmacy runs, ill-timed jokes because otherwise you might choke her she makes you so mad. Doctor's visits, running at every bump because you never know if she's fallen, or couldn't get up in the first place. Holding her when her mother fails to beat a degrading disease. Watching disease degrade her even as she pretends she's stronger than this.
Hearing your brother get life-lined over the top of your house, knowing he's rushing to surgery. Waiting room chairs. Waiting room floors. Vending machine coffee. Seeing your dad age like one of those time elapse scenes in a movie. Like Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Every time you think you've won, they come and take a leg. What is the weight of pride? Below the knee? No, that's not enough. Let's go ahead and take the knee,too. And drain him of his blood. Rob him of his strength. I've seen the light go out of my brother's eyes and that...is exhausting.
Seeing grandpa in a hospital bed, knowing he is the last of a dying breed. Being my mother's arms and ears and eyes because she can't come see him. I can't see him. Not like this. But you pour forth a little effort...try to make him smile, and he's doing better so you can stop trying so hard. But still...you keep treading water because it's only a matter of time before a chink is found in the armour. Surely at 87 years old he can't be this strong? For how long? Telling him he can go home soon and seeing him look for the lie. Waiting for us to tell him he's been given up on. Trying not to let him give up on himself.
You come home from a job that is exhausting to a house that is exhausting and to look at this mess makes me cringe. Because I can't move one more step, let alone wash these dishes. Or cook this food. Or sweep this floor.
I feel like someone has swept the floor with me.
And when I finally...finally...find my head on a pillow...sleep won't come. This is when the tears come. When the fears come. When you can finally be still is when you can finally feel just how fucking tired you really are. And then the alarm clock rings and you have to do it all again.
Bedraggled...weary and worn. As if dragged through the mud. In a deplorable state.
In other words...my soul.
