To Flounder {an investigation}

Via Pinterest

 I sip long and hard from the stained coffee mug before me. I think I'm on my third cup now, but the tension between my eyebrows is only growing thicker, and I feel lightheaded whenever I stand. I'm tired. My eight month old doesn't believe in sleeping long stretches during the night and my body clock doesn't believe in falling asleep any time before 11pm (a completely trainable fault on my part), so I medicate with strong coffee and a myriad of pills from a side shelf in my kitchen. "It's a balanced diet," I tell myself and down a token silverbeet leaf. 

 Outside, the ground is damp and cloying, the earth sticking to my boots like a persistent lover whenever I head across the yard. Clumps of grass seem to slip away from its surface, creating unsightly divots, and, quickly forgetting the sweat-ridden mowing that seemed to last all day, I longingly remember the smooth, green surfaces of Spring and Summer. The sun seems as reluctant as I myself to venture into this sleepy, cold world. Day after day he barely peaks over the hill, often shrouded in mist and more often than not, extremely lacklustre in warmth. Thanks to him, my seasonal depression is in full swing, and I swallow four times the recommended dose of vitamin D in the hope that this might provide a mental bandaid until the days begin to lengthen. I'm not sure it it helps or not, but I google 'Aztec sun worship' and 'solar powered t-shirt' to make myself feel better.

 It's tough to deal with exhaustion when your burnout is the birth child of blessing. I sit in the seat of incredible opportunity, but I also feel responsible for the most mundane and stupid of tasks. I take each scarred divot in my lawn as a mental neck twitch, each dirty paw print on the carpet as an itching scab - how much more do I feel that I sink under the weight of goats, beehives, horses, large vegetable gardens and two persistent, small children? And yet, through it all, I know that I am blessed. Maybe that blessing sends me deep under the bedsheets at 4pm, damp and salty while my three year old brings himself and his sandpit toys to join me, but that blessing, which feels like it dives under the covers for a moment's respite through the dark months of winter, will surely emerge - like me - hopeful after a floundering respite.