I am so afraid of being tired.

The bad sort of tired.

In this very moment, as I type out this essay I am tired. The bad sort of tired.

I often talk about how there are different types of tired. Let me list a few.

A LIST OF DIFFERENT SORTS OF TIRED:

• I’ve just finished a run tired: Delicious, wrung out, clear airways, clear mind. You can’t really do a lot, but it feels like an open sort of tired.

• I have just woken up tired: This is a hazy sort of tired that I can handle. Foggy, sluggish, but will eventually wear off.

• I’ve just had a huge cry: not dissimilar to exercise tired in my opinion. It’s like a rinsing out, a release. You are left feeling like a puddle in a way that I quietly like.

• Gooey tired: This is a sort of tired where you feel …gooey… I want to drink tea, and rest and snuggle. I feel a bit floppy. It is a tired without resistance. I am useless, but I am at peace.

• The bad sort of tired is the tired I am right now.

A constant yawning. A deep lethargy. A rock in my chest, that is not anxious, more like a blockage. I have no tolerance for anything. I feel so hard, taught. Cut off from my joy. I feel bored, under-stimulated and over stimulated at the exact same time.

When I am the bad sort of tired everything that demands something from me is a threat. Social requirements are so fucking hard. Any small task can get fucked. Big ideas, juicy conversations, creative things: I love you, I cannot partake in you. Right now as I navigate the bad sort of tired, I feel so resentful that I do not have the capacity to work on anything that delights me.

The bad sort of tired is extra bad because it does not like rest. In fact, it’s almost worse trying to rest when experiencing bad sort of tired. I am irritable and defensive. I want to squirm out of my own skin. Nothing can soothe me. I cannot sit still. I cannot let go. Resting feels like nails against a chalkboard.

When I am bad sort of tired, all I really want to be is unconscious. I want to be switched off.

The bad sort of tired has chased me my whole life.

I sometimes wonder if it is something to do with being neurodivergent. Sometimes I wonder if it is depression. Sometimes I think I must just be seriously bad at regulating my nervous system.

The lethargy, it haunts me.

I am currently tucked up in my local pub, in the english countryside, the spring air sneaks through the window. I have my book for sale at the pub, and my art is on all the walls - it’s Oxfordshire art weeks! This should be such a treat for me. It should feel, sparkly, yellow, and deep green.

It feels grey.

I am famously protective of my energy, and it is something I have felt shame of for most of my life.

When people ask me why I am so fiercely protective over my 9-10 hours of sleep each night, I think: because I am running from the bad sort of tired. When I leave events early, or excuse myself for breaks, when I say say no, - I do it is because I do not want to be the bad sort of tired. I fear it. Because I feel so unlike myself. So un-amie. I feel robbed of everything that delights me, robbed of everything that makes me me. I am not trying to be a party-pooper, I am trying to take care of myself, before I become unable to take care of myself.

The worst part of the bad sort of tired, is that I am unable to look after myself.

I am very good at looking after myself normally. It is why, if I may be so bold, I am so capable. Because I have figured out ways to talk to myself, care for myself, regulate myself, and in turn that has allowed me to be so incredibly brave and bold. But when the bad sort of tired arrives I have no tools at my disposal.

What about you go for a walk - fuck off.

What if you just sit down and watch your favourite show - that is too under stimulating, I want to throw something at the tv.

Couldn’t you just read a book - actually get fucked.

You need to take some Deep breaths - I hate you.

Why don’t you just nap - that is too under stimulating, I cant sit still, let alone lie down with my eyes shut, fuck you.

I feel like a mother with a screaming toddler who will not fucking calm down, and all I can do is hand them the iPad and say - here, blast your brain with this.

What is there to be done about the bad tired?

Because I am unable to look after myself during the bad tired, I must simply experience it. I must simply move through it, and it will, as it always does, dissipate. Ironically, it is a real lesson in being present. The only way is through.

Why would I write this depressing essay?

I think one of the harder parts about the bad sort of tired is that I have a lot of shame around it - and it is so healing for me to share my shame. To bring it to the light. To let it be Seen. Thank you for witnessing this raw part of me.

Amie

This essay is part of a larger truth:
Your art matters. My book We Need Your Art is proof.