Some Days, Surviving Is the Only Thing I Can Manage

There are days when I don’t feel like I’m living.

I’m just surviving.

Just dragging myself from one responsibility to the next, pretending I have enough left in me to keep carrying everything.

Wake up.

Get dressed.

Take care of everyone else.

Go to work.

Answer the phone.

Answer the messages.

Do the homework.

Handle the responsibilities.

Smile when I’m supposed to.

Say “I’m fine” because the real answer would make people uncomfortable.

Repeat.

And somewhere in the middle of all that shit, I’m supposed to remember that I’m a person too.

Not just a mom.

Not just an employee.

Not just a student.

Not just the one everybody calls when shit hits the fan.

Me.

The girl underneath all of it.

The girl who gets tired.

The girl who gets overwhelmed.

The girl who sometimes sits in silence because if she lets herself feel everything at once, she’s scared it might swallow her whole.

People see functioning and assume you’re okay.

That’s the fucked-up part.

You can be falling apart and still show up to work.

You can cry in the bathroom and walk back out like nothing happened.

You can feel completely empty and still laugh at someone’s joke.

You can be mentally exhausted beyond words and still make dinner, answer calls, finish assignments, and tuck your child into bed.

You learn how to suffer quietly because life doesn’t stop just because you’re struggling.

The bills still come.

The alarm still goes off.

People still need you.

Deadlines still exist.

The laundry still piles up.

And apparently the world expects you to keep spinning with it even when you feel like you’re hanging on by your fucking fingernails.

Some nights I look around and wonder how the hell I’m supposed to keep doing this.

Not because I don’t love my life.

Not because I don’t love the people in it.

But because I’m tired.

The kind of tired sleep doesn’t fix.

Tired of always having something to worry about.

Tired of being needed.

Tired of thinking.

Tired of carrying shit nobody even knows I’m carrying.

Tired of having to explain why I’m quiet.

Tired of pretending I’m not overwhelmed because I don’t want to become another problem someone has to deal with.

Sometimes I don’t want advice.

I don’t want someone telling me to “look at the positives.”

I know there are positives.

I know there are beautiful things in my life.

But sometimes life still fucking hurts.

Sometimes you can be grateful and exhausted at the same time.

You can love your life and still need a break from it.

You can be strong and still be one inconvenience away from crying in the Walmart parking lot.

You can be healing and still have days where everything feels like it’s falling apart again.

That doesn’t erase your progress.

It just means you’re human.

And lately I’m realizing survival is ugly.

It isn’t inspirational quotes and sunsets.

Sometimes survival is ignoring the dishes.

Sometimes it’s crying in the shower so nobody hears you.

Sometimes it’s eating whatever is closest because you know you need food but can’t bring yourself to cook.

Sometimes it’s lying in bed staring at the ceiling because your brain won’t shut the fuck up.

Sometimes it’s saying “I can’t do this today” and then somehow doing it anyway.

Not gracefully.

Not positively.

Not with some inspirational fucking speech playing in the background.

You just do it because there’s no other option.

And then you wake up and do it again.

I think that’s what people miss when they call someone strong.

Strength isn’t always beautiful.

Sometimes strength is angry.

Sometimes it’s exhausted.

Sometimes it’s mascara running down your face while you’re still putting one foot in front of the other.

Sometimes it’s whispering “fuck this” and getting up anyway.

I don’t always feel brave.

I don’t always feel hopeful.

I don’t always feel like some badass woman overcoming everything life throws at her.

Sometimes I feel like a fucking mess.

Sometimes I’m barely holding it together with caffeine, dark humor, stubbornness, and whatever tiny piece of me refuses to quit.

But I’m still here.

And maybe that’s the whole point.

Maybe I don’t have to make surviving look pretty.

Maybe I don’t have to explain why I’m tired.

Maybe I don’t have to turn every shitty experience into a life lesson before I’m ready.

Maybe some chapters are just fucking hard.

And maybe the victory is simply making it through them.

So no, I don’t have my shit together.

Some days I’m held together by pure spite and responsibility.

Some days I’m thriving.

Some days I’m surviving.

And some days the only thing I can say for myself is:

I made it through another fucking day.

And right now?

That has to be enough.

— The Girl Behind the Chaos