I’m here because I have a lingering memory, one that isn’t mine. At least I don’t think it belongs to me. The memory is this: I awoke one morning years ago and decided that I was exhausted. Not physically of course. That’s hardly something to complain about in today’s world. No, instead I found that I was simply worn out from trying. Trying to love and be loved, trying to appreciate and be appreciated, trying to improve and be improved by. I remember the feeling I didn’t have when I tried to sit up in bed and decided that it wasn’t worth it that day. The issue is this: When I remember this event, it’s not my voice in my mind. It’s not my bed when I wake up. It’s not my heart that aches from seemingly being so alone. The problem is this: It’s becoming my voice, my bed, my heart, my exhaustion.

I’m here because I’m tired of trying to tell people that I’m tired, and realizing they aren’t listening. I’m tired of loving without being loved in return. I’m tired of reaching out to hands that aren’t there. I’m here because I hope I’ll never have to read these words again.