I’m tired. The kind of tired that only comes with profound grief, the kind of tired that can not be only chalked up to a lack of sleep. There’s a certain feeling behind my eyes that I only get when I have gone multiple days without sleep, when I have cried myself out of tears. A certain hollow quality to the world, a sense that everything comes to me through a soft-focus filter or a layer of cotton wool.
I’ve been sleeping, and I’ve been beyond tears since early Wednesday morning. And yet this feeling is here.
I’m trying to sit with it. I’ve always been more easily able to access my anger and my rage than my sorrow, and my anger has been all that’s propelling me through these dark, uncertain days. Because if I stay angry, it gives me momentum — to organize, to fight back, to hold fast, to hold the line. Anger is fuel for the furnace. Anger is what transmutes sorrow and dread and fear into action. Anger is the catalyst.
I’ve spent the last two days organizing, networking, researching, all while trying to hold onto my sanity and do my day job.
And I’m tired.
This exhaustion, this fear, this rage, this sorrow — it’s all a sacrifice. When we sacrifice, we make sacred, we make holy.
And so I will sacrifice all these feelings that somehow exist within the hollowness inside me without ever filling it up. I will make it all sacred. I will make it all holy.