Why Can't I Handle Life Like I Used To?

My eyelids hang heavy on my semi-awake eyes.

The alarm has been going off for a while.

Why is it so annoying?

I'm not ready to get up. Will I ever be?

How did it get like this?

How did I end up barely able to function? Dragging myself out of bed every single day.

I keep thinking, hoping, it will be better another day. Then another day comes and I am still so tired.

What happened?

My brain is half awake now too.

Need to get moving. Need to get up. Need to get out the door.

I can't be late.

Not again.

I can't keep doing this.

I'm so overwhelmed.

Why do I feel like I'm going to cry?

I don't have time for this.

What is wrong with you that you can't to this?

I used to be able to do this.

Even more actually.

I don't have time to think about this.

I need to get out the door and I can't even manage to get out of my bed.

The blankets are warm around me still. I want to stay here longer.

Can I call in today?

No. Get up.

The voice is getting louder and harsher.

I know this is the best way to get myself out of bed.

It's what's worked in the past anyway.

But today it's not working.

I'm just feeling sadder.

More worn down.

Heavier.

I feel like I'm giving it my all.

I feel like I'm trying.

But then why doesn't it look like I'm trying?

Because doesn't trying look like getting up, showering, getting to work on time?

Maybe eating something other than a granola bar all day?

Ok, I'm up. See it worked again? Just have to push myself a little harder.

Every day.

Oh. My. God.

Why can't I find my keys?

This place is such a mess. If I were to just clean my house like a normal person, I'd be able to find my keys...and bra.

And now I'm running around like a crazy person again.

Why can't I just get my shit together?

I used to be able to handle all of this.

And I'm using the same systems

that used to work.

Finally in my car, sweat on my brow, anger in my belly.

I'm so mad at myself.

Seethingly mad at myself.

What do I need to do to for things to actually work in my life?

For my life to not feel so hard. Every. Single. Day.

I'm just a failure.

I'm just a fucking failure.

The systems are fine.

The schedule is fine.

Everyone else can do it.

I can't.

I can't do this.

And maybe I never could.

I can't even get myself to work out for God's sake.

The tears are falling so heavily, I know I'm going to be walking into work with puffy red eyes.

But, what can I do?

I've got to figure this out.

I need a plan.

I'm good at plans.

I can color code a schedule like nobody's business.

I know what I need to do.

I just can't seem to do it.

I put in so much effort. Every day I try.

I try so hard.

Sometimes it feel like I'm trying to use a paper towel to clean up the beach.

No matter how much I try, the ocean just keeps beating me down.

And I'm entirely overwhelmed.

More tears stream down the well worm trails on my cheeks.

Gentler tears.

Hu.

That's interesting.

The beach. I never really thought about the beach.

I've given so much thought to the measly paper towel.

But the beach?

I hadn't really thought about it like that.

And if that is the truth, and I don't know that it is.

Then maybe it's not the paper towels fault?

Because who cleans a beach with a paper towel and expects it to work?

And no matter how much effort I put in, will the paper towel ever be able to soak up the mess?

How much harder am I supposed to be trying?

And can I even try as hard as I'd need to in order to make it work?

Maybe it's not about the trying.

Or the effort?

Maybe the paper towel is just fine. For a different job. A different time.

I don't know.

Maybe I've been looking at the wrong thing.

I wouldn't look at someone else drowning under work and school and relationships and expectations and say,

You know what your problem is? Your planner. Or Your effort.

I wouldn't tell her to color-code it better.

I wouldn't watch her struggle to keep her head above water and decide this proves something about who she is.

So why does it prove something about me?

Why did I never even ask whether there was simply too much?

Why was the first explanation always me?

I failed.

I'm failing.

I am a failure.

Those aren't actually the same sentence.

I don't know why I've been treating them like they are.

But, if the fact that I can't do what I used to do doesn't automatically mean I've become lazy or incapable or some worse version of myself...

then I have to wonder what I've never let myself wonder before.

So, if none of that is it. What's the Real Problem?

With warmth,
Julia Bratton, LCSW
Therapist for the Tired but Trying