I’m so tired. It’s like a tiredness I can’t really quantify. It’s a now-tired, today-tired but also a this time of the month tired, time of year tired, this time of life tired. I’m rattling with pills. Today I’ve taken 4 x Tranexamic Acid for my heavy periods (irregular but still hanging in there, damn them), 4 x Co-Codamol for my frozen shoulder and a Naproxen for the same ailment. I’d take my Paradox (fish oil) and Multi-vitamin but I can’t be arsed. Menstruation doesn’t help. I feel maudlin and crave sugar like an addict; I sedate myself with carbs. That makes me more tired of course.
It’s the transformational time of year, back to school and routine and autumn in the air. It’s dark at 8pm again and the leaves are turning. I’m older and my body is wearing out, slowly. I would like to sleep but feel too restless. I haven’t run for a week because of the shoulder and cancelled my yoga classes. There’s always tonnes to do for my business but I’ve spent so much time learning, learning, learning that my brain feels a bit worn out. Unlike my bank account which has seen very little action. It’s time to hustle, again.
But then it’s been quite a year so far. I think we underestimate the taxing nature of dealing with a pandemic, the restrictions, the news, the constant changes, remembering face masks, checking in with our nearest and dearest, the fury and frustration at the bleak prospects for so many, the never-ending landslide of information, the overwhelm, the optimism, the overload. Exhausting.
Menopause reminds me that I’m in middle age, beyond actually, and it’s the time of life to slow down, enjoy the fruits of ones labour, look at the view. But we don’t live like that any more and because I’m a geriatric mother (technical term) I’m still primary parenting and whilst it’s sometimes everything and more, I wonder, often, what it must be like to be a young mother, with physical health and energy to spare. Really it’s my bandwidth that has narrowed, I don’t have endless supplies any more and it’s tangible, like my batteries are beeping to let me know that we’re over the half way line and, whilst small amounts of recharging are still possible, a full life is no longer an option. It’s not just that I can’t do more, it’s also that I care less; at least there’s a kind of freedom in that.
The physical body I can work with, that’s the trouble. Who knew middle age would be taken up with so much time analysing everything that passes your lips? Everything seems a constant reminder of how your body isn’t coping any more, with too much sugar, alcohol or bread. There’s an obsessive accounting which I honestly have never experienced before and yet I can’t seem to stop it. It’s exhausting and takes up too much bandwidth.
Time is now finite, no longer endless. It’s not that the possibilities have changed per se, but my priorities have. I no longer see life as stretching into the distance with myriad opportunities, more like the chances of attainableness have diminished. And all I really want is a beautiful view and a cup of tea. I’m finally ready to settle down and stay put, but, more than that, I can’t wait, like I could sit down now and not get up for a long time. I’m tired you see, oh so tired.
