Defending My “Not Tired” Piece

XoJane.com published a blog post I wrote entitled “Not Tired” and day-um people wrote some intense comments. I got called “lazy”, “condescending,” “self-righteous,” and “defensive”.   HEY INTERNET, DON’T HOLD BACK OR ANYTHING. Also, one commenter noted that my frequent use of all caps and parenthesis is a textbook sign of poor writing. OK, SHE HAS A POINT.  (But talk about condescending…). And then the comment-ers debated amongst each other about the seriousness of gluten allergies and Game of Thrones.  I did learn one thing: DO NOT READ COMMENTS.

I want to defend my stance in Not Tired, but the fact that I feel shamed for writing it illustrates the problem perfectly.  However, I have deep-seated desire to be liked, understood and accepted…on the Internet. I know. Not gonna happen.

Yes, I am well-rested…NOW.  But this has not always been the case.  I spent most of my life feeling VERY TIRED. In high school, I woke up at 5:45 AM, went to school and ran 6 miles (even in the rain), attended my roster of AP classes (in which I often stared into space) and the afternoon worked as editor of the yearbook, or met with student council or studied.  I often got home at 5 or 6 and fell asleep on my Calculus homework. I also took care of my toddler-half-sister and maybe once in a while hung out socially.  I loved school.  Without school, I might have run away from home. I commuted between my parents’ homes and it never occurred to me I could change this schedule. So at 18, when I graduated  from high school, I felt pretty tired.  Working that hard got me into an Ivy League school where the pressure to work felt even greater.  I often wondered if I had gone to a UC school I might have some time and space to figure out who I was.  But such is the folly of youth.

Forget about my college-bound geek schedule (which now would be ten times as busy), but the issues in my home and family that drove me to such intensity.  As an adult, I’ve worked many 40+ hour jobs and commuted, and woken up at night in a pool of sweat dreaming about deadlines and projects and art directors who hated me.  I have stressed out my adrenal glands to the point of illness, and none of this advanced me in work, creativity, life or health. It wasn’t about surviving, but about avoiding my feelings, and figuring out what I really want to do, or who I am.

And asking yourself that question is a huge pain in the ass responsibility because it’s terrifying.

Are we good? Ok, I’m done.

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