I know I’m exhausted because the littlest thing sets me off. An innocuous telephone call, an email from my son that sounds as if he’s chastising me, the FedEx man arriving at my door with more paperwork. I roll my eyes as I open the front door, grab the package and shout, “Thank you” to a retreating back.
I get this way every now and then, and usually it’s because I’ve taken on more than I should. I can tell when this is about to happen because I no longer do the things that are important to me, like playing piano and reading the paper and doing the crossword puzzle and simply breathing peacefully.
Instead I feel rushed, anxious, angry. I wonder how everything will get done, especially when most of the things I have to do have no direct bearing on my well-being. They are the purview of others.
What gets me out of this funk? Well, sometimes a good cry does wonders. Sometimes a great rant does too. But mostly, I swallow the exhaustion, spend a couple nights doing nothing, and try to get back on track. There is nobody I know who can help when exhaustion sets in, and perhaps it’s of my own making. I don’t accept help lightly.
At the same time, as I age, I realize that exhaustion is a sign that I’m overdoing. That I need to back off and not care if I disappoint those around me. That I need to tend to my own needs. It’s a difficult lesson for me, since I’ve been programmed otherwise. Yet, maybe this is the lesson I need to learn to cope with old age.
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