This weekend was meant to be a bit of an escape. A chance to get out of the house, forget everything that’s constantly worrying me, spend time with people I care about, browse a queer market, attend a social, and remind myself that there is still a world outside my four walls.
And in many ways, it was lovely. There was laughter, good food, conversations, and the simple comfort of being somewhere different for a while. Sometimes that alone is enough to remind me that life isn’t completely confined to anxiety and doctors’ appointments.
But underneath all of that, I discovered just how exhausted I really am.
Not just physically, although there was plenty of that too. Emotionally. Socially. Perhaps spiritually.
As the weekend went on, old feelings started bubbling back to the surface. The same questions I’ve wrestled with for years. Why does asking for things feel wrong? Why do I assume I’ve disappointed people? Why do I feel guilty for having needs? Why does connection feel so frightening when it’s also the thing I seem to want most?
One evening in particular hit me much harder than I expected. I found myself overwhelmed by disappointment, loneliness and the familiar feeling that somehow I’d failed at being a person again. My mind did what it always does when I’m exhausted and frightened: it put me on trial. Every awkward moment became evidence. Every uncertainty became proof that I was broken, difficult, or somehow getting life wrong.
Looking back now, with a little distance and a decent night’s sleep behind me, I can see that what really happened was much simpler. I’d reached my limit. My social batteries were empty, my emotions were overflowing, and I needed to come home. Sometimes reaching your limit isn’t failure. Sometimes it’s just being human.
By the time I came home on Sunday afternoon, it felt as though every version of me had gathered in the same room and all of them were trying to speak at once. The caretaker who wants everyone else to be okay. The overthinker who tries to understand everything. The mourner who still carries love and loss. The frightened child who learned that wanting things could be dangerous. And somewhere underneath all of that, the quiet, hopeful voice that somehow refuses to disappear.
I’ve spent so much of my life trying to work out which version is the “real” me.
Maybe I’ve been asking the wrong question.
Perhaps they’re all me.
Not enemies. Not flaws. Not competing personalities. Just different parts of the same person who somehow survived grief, illness, trauma, loneliness and loss.
I also realise how much grief I still carry for the things I never got to experience. Some opportunities were missed. Some were taken from me. Some belonged to futures that never arrived. That’s painful, and I think I’m finally beginning to accept that it’s allowed to be painful.
But sadness doesn’t necessarily mean hopelessness.
Something unexpected happened when I came home.
- The noise quietened.
- I slept.
- I rested.
And I realised that not every thought inside me is as dark as my daemons were telling me on Saturday night.
In fact, since getting home, those frightening thoughts that felt so overwhelming earlier in the weekend have simply not been there. I don’t know whether that’s because I finally felt safe, because I was exhausted, or because my mind just needed somewhere familiar to land. Perhaps it’s a bit of all three.
I’m still confused.
I still don’t really understand how people work, or relationships, or communities, or even how to ask for what I want. Truthfully, I’m not always sure I know what I want in the first place. I’ve spent so much of my life believing that wanting things was selfish that even thinking about my own desires can feel uncomfortable.
But maybe that can change.
Not through some grand reinvention or sudden breakthrough. Just slowly. Gently. Like roots spreading underground where nobody can see them.
I still miss the people I’ve lost. I still carry love that time hasn’t erased, and I no longer think that’s something I need to apologise for. Love doesn’t disappear simply because someone is gone.
Maybe the point isn’t letting go.
Maybe the point is learning how to keep growing.
So today is a recovery day. Coffee, television, and probably a nap. No heroic victories. No life-changing revelations. Just maintenance.
And perhaps that’s enough. And for once, that doesn’t feel like a complete failure.
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