(no subject)
Exhaustion takes many shapes and dimensions. There is the weariness that renders me unable to remember words, phrases and idioms when I need to make corrections on the articles I'm supposed to edit. There is the stiffness in my neck and shoulders from sitting hunched over papers and reference books. There is the numbness in my brain that makes me stare stupidly at the blinking monitor, knowing what I wanted to say in Bahasa Indonesia but unable to shape it in English without sounding so Indonesian. There is the odd feeling of having cottonballs for a brain from not sleeping worrying about meeting deadlines and paying bills. There is the frayed nerves that make it even more of an uphill struggle to keep myself from snapping at my colleagues when they start to put on loud music or interrupt me when I'm concentrating on my article or badger me to do another task while I'm in the middle of something. There is the inexplicable urge to weep, for no reason at all. There is the throbbing ache in my skull and behind my eyes and thinking that I can't afford to get sick now, with my work as it is and the state of my bank account.
Last night I saw a local soap opera with my mother. One of the character, a young man who has just started working, moaned, "I never knew it's so hard to earn a living." My immediate reaction to this was a derisive snort that was ripe with disillusionment and world-weariness. My mom glanced at me and our eyes met. I found something close to pity and understanding in her eyes. I rarely tell her about my work, certainly not all the rigors and politics involved in it, but I guess that single burst of scornful interjection told her how much her daughter had changed from the innocent, overly eager and serious young girl that she knew.
There is a spot in the corner of my bed where my most beloved cat used to like to sleep. I remember the short-lived comfort of hearing the soft creak of the bed when he climbed in and the light pressure of his paws as he walked over my blanketed feet to his favorite spot and the sound of him licking his lush fur in the dark. I remember reaching out to sleepily stroke his belly and falling into a peaceful slumber with his head lying on my palm, his whiskers tickling me as he twitched in his dreams. I remember seeing him by the door when I came home, and the smile on my face as I saw him trotting toward me, a warm fuzzy feeling blooming within me, overpowering even the most defeating exhaustion. He died three days after my twenty-sixth birthday, he was only three then. I've never missed and needed him as desperately as I do now.