Exhausted

Well, it's that time of the year again. Those few weeks where my body goes, "Okay, ENOUGH!!".

It happens around every August. I've pushed myself as hard as I can and my body decides it wants to take a holiday. My joints ache, my body feels like lead, and remembering the password for my phone becomes impossible. I stare at the hunk of black plastic like it's an alien species before tossing it in to a corner. Let it ring. Whoever it is can talk to the voice mail.

Friends and family get the brunt of my tiredness as I swing from snide comments to gallows humour to all out narcissism. I cry, and shout, and stare at my belly button because I can't accurately describe how I'm feeling. The power of expression has suddenly upped and left. I'm not a pretty picture at these times, and gods help anyone who comes in to my firing line.

Thankfully I've learned to notice the signs. The weariness. The inability to string a sentence together. The time it takes for my brain to work out how to use the kettle. Suddenly I feel OLD. Really old. I go from running all over the place to sitting in my little spot here and leaning against the wall while I watch cat videos.

Some people translate it as me disliking them. It can take me several minutes to carefully explain what's wrong, and even then I'm not sure if everyone believes me or if they think I'm out to get them. I'm not. My body and brain just want a rest, even if it does mean going into Ultra Grumpy Rae mode (That's the one several steps up from the normal Grumpy Rae you see here).

I try not to let it get me down, especially the people at the Day Job who tell me, "Oh, you only work part time.". Yes, but like everyone else, I then go home and help look after a house. And, on top of that, shock horror, I actually start the SECOND, far more enjoyable, job. My day doesn't end when I step out of those doors and begin the walk home. No, it carries on. The music playing through my headphones is the soundtrack to the latest piece I'm working on. My phone, stuffed in the bottom of my bag, the password still forgotten, is pulling in information I've asked it to look for. When I get home, I make a cup of tea, switch on the computer, and start again.

Recently, I had this conversation with the awesome Meg Kingston about this. About how the brain doesn't stop working and that people think the things we produce (be it books, music, poetry, art, engineering, whatever) simply... appear. They don't. A well worked piece will have weeks of research in it (I'm currently listening to live air traffic control feeds for a new piece). And this stresses the brain. Just because you're sitting, or pacing, or lying on the sofa doesn't make it any less of an activity than a full day's manual labour.

Anyway, that's enough of me moaning. I'm going to go and stare at the kettle, see if I can convince it to turn on. Failing that, I'll be here watching cat videos.

Peace and love to you all!