Exhausted

I realized how tired I was two days ago. I washed my hair twice. As I was packing lunches for my family, I dropped one of the containers and half of the ground chicken with peanuts went down the stove. It was 7:20 am.  Exhaustion has become a daily companion around here.

The days seem long and slow, yet here we are, back in March. In this bizarre new reality, there seems to be a communal agreement to accept that life has felt into this new default. A default where you work from home -if you can, you set routines with your family around levels of Covid risk, availability of care and whatever else lives throws at you. I think I am someone well equipped to deal with life. Growing in a country in a civil war teaches you to endure and carry on. At the same time, this is a different kind of war, this is a war of patience, burn-out and acceptance.

I have tried to meditate and do yoga on and off for years. I can’t get myself to keep it up for more than a week. These days, I find myself meditating doing dishes or folding clothes. I also find myself losing my cool when I can’t find socks, especially the little ones. Once all of this is over, I would love to host a lost sock get together. We can swap socks and stories from the silly routines we follow at night, like signing animal songs to get the sillies out or have the same arguments when your child throws their toothbrush across the bathroom every other night.

Eleven years ago, I was working in a humanitarian disaster response in Haiti. Overworked, emotionally drained and a little hopeless. I was also coming to terms with the death of my brother. Sometimes, life throws at you all at once. Your turn, it says. Your turn.

Feeling emotionally burn out has multiple faces. Sometimes, it is detachment. That project that you have been investing for months and now you don’t care about. Sometimes, it is emotional buffet, all you can feel in an hour. It goes from having to walk away when food gets thrown to the floor I just cleaned during nap time to silently cry observing that same beautiful child playing his invisible saxophone like the world depends on it. Sometimes, it is the sense of having things under control, a sense of normalcy in the most abnormal times.

I have improved my ability to cook and improvise. I feel proud of it. It is sad to think that only a pandemic that forced me to be at home gave me what I needed to actually step up, not for a day, not for a week, but every single day. I think about my single mother. When she was my age, I was 17. She worked full time, including half a day on Saturdays. She did that until June last year. I think about the oppressive force of the late nights getting ready for the next morning. Sometimes, I can be implacable with my parents. I judge them in my head, I double guess their choices. By the kitchen sink as my witness, I have come to understand the complexities of what it takes to raise children, to build a home, to nurture a partnership and to show up as you can every day.

I have started to call my parents more often.

Sometimes I am so tired that  I get up early and shower and get dress on Sundays, like if I need to connect to a zoom call with colleagues. Weekends are an illusion for those of us who care for others. For small children, for parents near or far away, for friends who can use a friend. Making decisions becomes difficult and upsetting. Too many things I should be doing, and I am not.

I started to drink coffee around the time I became a dad. Sometimes, I drink coffee after dinner so I can make it to midnight without crumbling apart.  I get random cravings of chocolate and raisins right before going to bed. Sometimes, I realized I have not drunk water in hours, and I am cranky because I only ate half of my lunch. Sometimes I am too tired to warm it up as I sit in front of the screen and then get mad because the food is cold. This is what being a toddler must feel like.

There are days when the tension headaches are gone, and the sun is actually out, and I feel as I can do this adulting thing. I bring my full self to the back to back meetings, respond to overdue emails and socialize in teams. I get to listen to half a podcast and end the day with ten minutes to spare. I am certain I won’t be able to do this again tomorrow, but I can’t think about tomorrow just yet.

Amid these levels of exhaustion, I have found moments of profound clarity and gratitude as well. Moments where I can clearly see who I am, beneath the winter jacket, the title and job description, the labels of husband, father, son, friend. Now I am trying to come to terms with that. Sometimes, it is too much to take. It was for me. I decided to sit down one morning and write down all the unresolved questions I keep thinking about. With red pen I wrote “I will deal with this in three months”. I put that notebook in a drawer with my summer clothes. Every time I start to wonder about these things, I remind myself that mental vacations are okay too.

A year ago, my son was learning to speak. Today, he switches languages as changing songs in an iphone. A year ago, I was amazed by the impact his life was having in my life. Today, I am humble by the relentless patience he has with my imperfect self. I still don’t have the language to articulate the magnitude of this year caring for him and allowing him to care for me. I don’t know how to explain the way he has helped me healed what I thought it was impossible to heal. I am forever grateful for his presence and love. I also love that in every story we read, he says “papá is not in the story because he is doing the dishes”.

Sending you all love and patience and courage. We are exhausted in this together.