On Feeling Tired

The other day I went for a walk. It was a good day. All was well with the world. Well, at least in my world. I'd gotten up before my alarm clock could ring and a friend actually brought me coffee - while I was still in bed reading Faulkner. I got up, took care of myself and my room, and went to work. Although I had to work alone I got finished early and since they had an unexpected project for me I was able to work overtime as well which I didn't mind since it meant more numbers on my next paycheck. During my lunch break I ate a nice little salad and felt healthy about myself. Once I finished work I had a telephone conversation of over an hour with one of my best friends. Then I showered and started my walk.

As I said, I felt good. It was a good day. While walking I kept listening to Crunchy Granola Suite and other old classics. I felt great. My plan was to walk down to the supermarket and browse the aisles a bit before going to a restaurant and sitting down to some light dinner. What I really wanted was the restaurant atmosphere. I felt like writing. I'd taken paper and pen and planned on ordering coffee after my meal so I could get busy and write. It turned out I wasn't hungry. I honestly had no appetite whatsoever. Suddenly I realized that though I felt like writing I really had nothing to write about. It was then I realized I was tired.

Somehow, don't ask me how, my mind had changed gears. I went from feeling good to feeling tired. But it was a strange kind of tired. It wasn't your usual tired, as in physical exhaustion or sleepiness. It was worse. It was deep. It was something like boredom only deeper.

I was tired of it all, quite literally, all. I was tired of writing and it not coming out any good. I was tired of feeling inadequate. I was tired of feeling overweight and tired of promising to do something about it while never really fulfilling those promises. I was tired of wanting sex. I was tired of not having sex. I was tired of my fluctuating devotional life. I was tired of the repeated stories. I was tired of not having the spiritual disciplines I needed. I was tired of not knowing what to say or else not being able to say it. I was tired of feeling alone all the time. I was just tired.

So then I came back home, well, the closest thing to a home available to me right now. At home I settled down to some music (the depressing kind) and began to read. The story was How to Become a Writer by Lorrie Moore. It had some great lines in it. I'll share them now with you and I'll share them in the order in which I encountered them. Notice this, though, the last quotation will be the one most poignant to my situation. Still, read on, and enjoy.

"Decide that you like college life. In your dorm you meet many nice people. Some are smarter than you. And some, are dumber than you. You will continue, unfortunately, to view the world in exactly these terms for the rest of your life."

"The only happiness you have is writing something new, in the middle of the night, armpits damp, heart pounding, something no one has yet seen. You have only those brief, fragile, unrested moments of exhilaration when you know: you are a genius."

"Later on in life you will learn that writers are merely open, helpless texts with no real understanding of what they have written and therefore must half-believe anything and everything that is said of them."

"Insist you are not very interested in any one subject at all, that you are interested in the music of language, that you are interested in - in - syllables, because they are the atoms of poetry, the cells of the mind, the breath of the soul."

"You will read somewhere that all writing has to do with one's genitals. Don't dwell on this. It will make you nervous."

"You have broken up with your boyfriend. You now go out with men who, instead of whispering 'I love you,' shout, 'Do it to me, baby.' This is good for your writing."

"Suppose you threw a love affair and nobody came?"

"Occasionally a date with a face as a blank as a sheet of paper asks you whether writers often become discouraged. Say that sometimes they do and sometimes they do. Say it's a lot like having polio."

Yes, that's it. Sometimes I get discouraged and sometimes I do. This tiredness is discouraging. I don't know what to do. I mean, how exactly, does one go about casting all of one's cares on Christ? All of them? Really, I mean, all of them? It seems like a lot. It isn't really, I mean, I realize that in all honesty there aren't all that many cares haunting me right now (knock on wood). But what ones I do have seem foolish. Dare I say, pedantic? He doesn't want to be bothered with this petty trite foolishness, does He? What do I do? Do I go to Him and say, "Um, God, I'm feeling tired. It's like a strange mix of boredom and discouragement. I don't know, it might even be depression. Help me, please."

I'll be honest. During my walk I thought about suicide. Not about committing it, per se, but rather I just entertained the easiness of the notion. Elijah also thought about suicide. They say that he thought of it because he was scared. I can't really blame him. Jezabel was on his tail and so was the entire army. All out to kill him. So, yes, I guess that feeling afraid was part of it. But maybe it wasn't all of it. Maybe there was more. He was, after all, on the lam. He was an "escaped convict." A desperate fugitive hiding out in the desert. Maybe because of all that running he was tired. Maybe tiredness made him think of suicide. I don't know. I'm just thinking.

But thank God for those reassuring voices. Thank God for the small whispers he got later on. Now it's my turn. Now I have to get up and turn off the depressing music. I have to leave off these ridiculous short stories and open a Book with a better story. I need to sit up and pay attention. God is there. He wants to talk with me. He wants to comfort me. And I want to hear Him whisper.