Tired

"It's 5:17," I say quietly to my husband.

"I guess we should get up," he answers from his side of the bed.

"Unfortunately. I feel like I could sleep for another two hours," I say as I turn off the alarm and slip out of bed. I walk slowly across our dark bedroom, waiting for my muscles to loosen up. After putting on a sweatshirt and warm socks to protect me from the chill of downstairs, I head for the kitchen, stopping to pour cat food in the cats' bowls before starting a cup of coffee for myself.  My husband soon joins me.

"What day is it?" I ask as I pull the milk out of the refrigerator.

He looks at me blankly for a few seconds. Both of our sluggish brains are trying to figure out the answer to my question.

"Thursday," he says.

"The 21st," I say, sniffing at the gallon of milk.

"Oh, you're checking the milk. Do we have another one?" he asks.

"Yes, but waste not want not and all that," I respond, pouring a small amount of milk in my coffee.

"Does it smell okay?" he asks.

"Well, I just poured some in my coffee, so let's hope so."

I carry the steaming cup of coffee over to the kitchen table and sit down at my laptop and begin to type.

I am tired, and not entirely confident that the coffee or the hot shower I will be taking in the next thirty minutes will do anything to alter that. A yawn that threatens to split my face in half overcomes me.  

I am tired. Physically, mentally, emotionally tired.

I am tired of being overwhelmed.

I am tired of worrying.

I am tired of feeling like nothing I do is ever enough.

I am tired of there never being enough time to do the things I have to do.

I am tired of feeling guilty when I take a break from that never-ending to-do list to do something I want to do.

I am tired of faking smiles while holding back tears.

I am tired of the relentless, impossible expectations of others.

I am tired of feeling like time is running short and there is so much more that I want to do.

I am tired of feeling like there isn't enough of me to go around.

I am tired.

My toast pops up in the toaster and I get up from my chair to retrieve it.

"You want me to get it?" my husband asks. He has just sat down to eat the bagel he made for himself before slipping a slice of sourdough bread into the toaster for me.

"No, I can get it. I don't expect you to wait on me," I tell him. He already does so much for me. 

He is tired, too.