Strength and the lack thereof

Ten months into this year and I am worn the fuck out. I was worn the fuck out before I got more concerning health news that was immediately shackled to the wall in limbo because, apparently, specialists for this thing are booked a solid 4 months in advance.

I was worn the fuck out before I was solicited to model for an organization and somewhere in my damaged brain I thought Oh, what the hell. Why not? I ask you, what the ever-loving fuck was I thinking? Seriously! I hate having my picture taken. It is enormously stressful for me even when I have complete control over what images are taken, which get seen, the post-processing etc. I have zero control over this shoot. I am freaking right the fuck out.

I was worn the fuck out before I volunteered to host a party. Yeah, I, who have no friends to speak of, offered to host a party because no one else stepped up to do so. I hate being the center of attention. I hate putting myself out there to be judged. I hate being responsible for making sure everyone has a good time. I hate knowing that this party will be talked about for better or for worse. There are only so many variables I can control. There is a competing party the same night which draws from the same pool of people and, judging from the RSVPs for my shindig, that other one is where everyone will be. I’m responsible for this party and even I don’t want to go. I really have no desire to wander around the venue watching people bail because it turned out to be lame. Maybe there will be some freak, catastrophic storm and it will be canceled. Is it too warm to hope for a blizzard?

My escape used to be going to the club. No one wanted anything from me. I could just be. I could sit and talk and pretend to have friends and leave when my introversion reasserted itself. I don’t have that now. Now, I have multiple people who want to serve me. (Which sounds awesome but JesusHChrist, can I please just have five minutes to breathe, without being swarmed, or maybe have an actual conversation with someone who sees me as a whole thinking, feeling person, not some sexually charged, tight-laced, leather-covered carnival ride?) Multiple people who want to play. Multiple people seeking waist training advice. Multiple people pestering me to teach. Multiple people getting butt hurt because they thought they had some claim on me and now, there are these other multiple people making it undeniable that said claim was/is imaginary. I swear it feels like there is a line of people waiting not-so-patiently to extract what’s left of my life force for their personal use. Dementors hovering, not caring that the supply is limited or what it does to me, as long as they get their fix.

I go to bed drained and cannot sleep because I can’t stop my cyclical thoughts. I wake up exhausted. I don’t have any magical reserves of strength to pull from. I’m a walking zombie. I get up and put on my human mask and go about my day. So far it’s working. So far no one has noticed. I don’t know how much longer I can pull it off before I lose my shit and bite someone … and not in a good way.