Tuesday, September 20, 2016

Exhaustion

I leaned over the counter in my kitchen. Sweat dripped from my forehead and ran down the side of my face. My condo was air conditioned, but it had little effect on the way I felt. My limbs creaked with every movement, and my brain moved in what seemed to be slow, concentric circles.

I pushed away from the sink and lurched towards the balcony. Outside, the sun had started its long descent, but the heat hadn’t diminished. My shirt clung to my chest as I sank into the chair.

“I did it, Nelson,” I said to my cat, who had followed me outside. “And tonight I’ll go out and have some fun.”

I scratched him behind the ear and leaned back. Sixteen of seventeen days completed. Twenty two of twenty five. Without question, it was the most lengthy and difficult stretch of work I’d ever experienced, and all of it on the heels of an emotionally exhausting year.

I glanced at the book I’d brought out with me and dismissed it. I was too tired to read. Too tired to do anything. I popped open a beer and let out a long breath.

Over the past month I’d barely written, and while I’d managed to stay in touch with my friends, I couldn’t remember what it was like to get a full night’s sleep. Couldn’t remember what it was to have it all together. Couldn’t remember what it was like to, well, remember things. It was like my brain had taken a vacation.

I lived in a city that pushed people to be constantly moving. Over the past month I’d done that, in a way I’d never done before. And with a full three day weekend looming, I expected to feel relief. Three glorious days of writing and sleeping and working out.

Instead, I felt anxious.
   
I sipped my beer and sighed. The sun began to skirt lower along the buildings, casting an orange nimbus about them, as if the steel structures had suddenly earned halos. As hard as I’d worked, as spent as I felt, instead of feeling the release that was supposed to come with it, I felt an urge to work harder. To push farther. To do more. I’d checked daily into my work account for my monthly earnings since I'd started the run of work. Felt myself smile at the number. Felt something like pride when I saw it.

I can do this. If I keep working like this, I’ll be ahead of the game in no time.

Understand, youth workers don’t get “ahead of the game.” Not financially. Not in a city like Toronto. The best you can hope for is a sort of equilibrium, where your bills are paid and you have a bit left over to save and spend. Unless, of course, you’re willing to be exhausted. Not just for a month. Not just for a few moments. But consistently. Until it becomes a state of being. I didn’t think I wanted that – hell, I’d never wanted that – but after surviving the past month, I wasn’t so sure.

Do I really need three days off? Maybe I should call work and see if they have anything for me. I’m not THAT tired.

As I stared down at the traffic, it occurred to me that I hadn’t written in a while. That my novels were beyond due. That I hadn’t kept up with my friends and family the way I would’ve liked. None of those things put money in my bank account, but they were important. At least, I remembered them being important.

I tilted my bottle. It was empty. I thought about grabbing another, but it seemed a long way to the fridge. I stared down at the cars and tried to think about my writing and where I was going with my next book.

It was like sifting through lead.

All I really wanted to do was sleep.

And work again.

I’d never been a “work at all costs and get ahead” person, so that I was actually thinking that way worried me.  Was I becoming that person? The one who worked endlessly for the pot of gold but never saw the rainbow? The one I’d seen I’d the subway with the tailored suit and perfect makeup and dead eyes?

I tried to convince myself I was being practical. That everyone got busy. That a little sacrifice now meant a lot towards the future.

It wasn’t working.

After more than a little effort I managed to find my way to the fridge for another beer and back on the balcony. I cracked it open. There was little to find in literature about the benefits of exhaustion. Generally speaking, Western society – particularly North Americans – tended to work too hard for things that didn’t really matter. It had been a long held criticism that we worried too much about keeping up with the Jones and Smiths. The criticism, as legitimate as it was, had been around for so many years it no longer seemed to matter.
Advertisers still spent billions on creating needs. We still held far too much personal debt and most of us lived from paycheck to paycheck because we lived beyond our means. I was guilty of it, too. Maybe that’s why creating some financial space was so important for me, why it felt so practical, why it felt like I was making too big a deal of things.
   
I sipped my beer and stared at the relentless train of vehicles moving and weaving and honking up and down Yonge Street like worker bees in a honeycomb. It didn’t seem to matter what time I sat outside. The cars were always there, as ever present as the buildings towering above them.

Maybe that was it. Maybe it was that in working so many hours at such an exhausting job I’d lost my sense of space. That everything around me suddenly felt narrow and restricted. I’d often lamented with my friends over the shallow tendencies of our culture when it came to things like history and critical thinking and the ability to be present. But when it cost so much just trying to get to the next appointment, the next shift, the next thing, those things became impossible. We’d become a society of selfies, not mirrors, where it was more important to document our life than to actually live it. I’d never really understood that, but it made sense now. We took pictures to prove that we’d been somewhere, not only to others, but to ourselves. At the end of the day, I could pull out my phone and say, “See, I was living! I went there. I ate that. I was with her.” Even if we couldn’t remember any of the details.

I let out a long sigh as Nelson rubbed up against my knee. “Yeah, I missed you too, buddy.”

As a lifelong weightlifter, exhaustion was part of the routine. I’d work out until I was sore, wait a day or two, and the next time I used that muscle they’d have repaired themselves. Exhaustion made them stronger. But that wasn’t true about this collective urge to get more and do more and make more. Sure, I’d learned that I could work a month straight without a break at a strenuous job, but the other muscles in my life had been completely neglected. Like the ability to see beyond my own tiredness and empathize with others. The ability to think critically about social issues. The ability to consider my actions in the light of the future.

I swigged the last of my beer and followed Nelson back inside. In my room, I climbed onto my bed, too tired to even pull back the covers.

I thought about the plans I’d made for my first night off.

Maybe tomorrow.