I'm tired.

Of cleaning a house that never seems to actually stay clean.

Of doing things for a child that never seems grateful.

Of trying to breathe. I’m tired of it being so.damn.hard.

Of trying to gain weight. The guilt I carry weighs more than what I actually gain.

Of going to the dietician.
And the therapist.
And the gastroenterologist.
And the allergist.
And the pulmonologist.
And the E.D. specialist.

I’m tired of being tired.

I’m tired of being humiliated because I have a tube, or because I’m sick, or because something, always, invariably, is wrong with me.
I’m wrong.

Of being misunderstood.

Of enduring sympathetic, probing, stares. Or worse, questions.

Of lame jokes, like, “Hey, you can have some of my weight!” or “I wish I couldn’t breathe! Maybe then I’d lose 10 lbs!” You have no freaking idea what you're talking about, Loser.

Of being pitied.

Of being the Sick One.

Of taking 9 medications at night and 2 inhalants. And of getting 14 shots a month.

Of medical bills.

Of a job where I feel expendable.

Of expectations that I always fall short of, by, like, a mile.

I’m tired of smiling. Of being SO STRONG. SO BRAVE. SO AWESOME.

I’m tired of faking it.

But, at the very least, I suppose I’m alive to even feel tired of all of these things.
That’s got to count for something.

Even when I’m really tired.