When you ask me how I’m feeling, I’ll tell you that I’m fine, I’m just tired.

But I’m not just sleepy tired. Though the prospect of turning myself into a burrito with my duvet is a lovely thought.

When I say that I’m tired, what I really mean is:

I’m tired of my stomach hurting.

I’m tired of my hands shaking.

I’m tired of feeling like there’s a balloon in my chest that’s taking up too much room to breathe.

I’m tired of feeling empty.

I’m tired of getting black-out dizzy every time I stand up.

I’m tired of holding myself together.

I’m tired of the constant battle to do anything.

I’m tired of feeling behind.

I’m tired of being overwhelmed by simply existing.

I’m tired of being medicated.

I’m tired of feeling sad.

I’m tired of not wanting to do anything. At all.

I’m tired of taking things in stride.

I’m tired of “learning experiences.”

I’m tired of stress.

I’m tired of feeling numb.

I’m tired of wanting to aimlessly circle a blade around my calves.

I’m tired of feeling like a space cadet.

I’m tired of sleeping with awful dreams.

I’m tired of trying to be ok.

I feel guilty for feeling all of these things.

I’m tired of feeling guilty.