I’m tired. Of being depressed and thinking the depression has lifted only to wake up the next day once again enmeshed in its impenetrable fog. Of insomnia one night and then the next three, leaving me with dark circles under my eyes and up until 4am with the birds chirping and construction saws buzzing, followed by a night of dreams so lucid it takes me an entire day to sort through what’s memory, what’s fiction. Of trails of pain from childhood that I continue to wander across, mostly when I’m not paying attention to where I’m going, and being 41 and still not able, as Anne Lamott would advise, to entirely give up the hope of having had a better past (that is: to forgive). Of being in so much physical pain; every vial of blood drawn offers the promise of answers to my medical riddles—neurological? rheumatological? autoimmune?—but so far the puzzle’s unsolved and the only solution proffered is yet another prescription scribbled on yet another pad. Of counting down the days until one court date or another—will I lose my child tomorrow or my home? Of not feeling settled or grounded or safe; these are difficult things to feel when sleep-deprived, chronically ill and unemployed, losing one’s housing. Of feeling unsettled and ungrounded and unsafe from the day I was born (or the day I can remember) and always expecting it would be different when I got older and things would be under my control. Of not having things under control, even though I’m older. Of wondering whether I’m just not old enough or if I missed all my chances and this is my life now and, if so, what’s the point after all this struggle? Of being envious of Sisyphus, of all people, because at least (according to myth) he figured out why it had to be so hard and all I can do is want it not to be because it doesn’t seem to have to be for other people. Of riding back and forth to Chicago on a bus because airplanes are too expensive and not being able to sleep and feeling like crying because (well, PMS, but also) the sadness of wanting for forever is so big it’s as big as this bus, but because I’m in public I can’t cry so instead I do the only thing I’ve ever known how to do, which is write it all down. Which is the one thing I suppose I’m not tired of, and maybe that’s grace after all.