Words. Words. Words.

“Is tiredness a word?’ my daughter asked me just before bedtime. - "YES!!!” 
In my household we just got through chickenpox, and it feels like no matter what I do, my to-do-list is always at least 10 steps ahead of me. Actually, it’s towering over me, possibly because I get distracted by the chaos of my life, Brexit being one big chunk of it. Blog post, Charis, you meant to write a blog post, I remind myself as I catch myself scanning the news for any possible reassurances. It’s been a long day, I’m almost too tired to spell tiredness. I feel I’m about to come down with a cold or flu, and still my to do list is grinning at me. I’m almost too tired to care. It’s little things that I take comfort in, like - thank god, I remembered the recycling this time! (Though only because I heard my neighbour wheel his bin through the dark…) I’m too tired to feel excited about all the things I should be feeling excited about. Uncertainty wears you down. I find myself sitting on the stairs, in the dark, too tired to go to bed, reading the news on my phone. And I cry, because the Costa Amendment was voted through. I cry, out of gratitude to the man who chose to support EU citizens’ rights, although it meant losing his job. I cry, because I have been voiceless, and someone, who didn’t need to care at all, made it his business to speak in my stead. It is painful and terrifying to feel one doesn’t matter, and to have the government acknowledge one deserves to have one’s rights safeguarded - and to decide to act on it - feels huge. I’m so tired of this in-limbo-ness. I don’t even care if it’s a word.

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