During the past two weeks, my family has been glued to the TV watching the world’s best in swimming, gymnastics, and cycling. One thing that I find agonizing as an occasional sports fan–and that I realize must drive hardcore fans insane–is the way in which an athlete’s emotional state can either invigorate or devastate performance. We watched our own men’s gymnastics team breathe in a wind of defeat and subsequently forget that they still had a shot at a medal. The same thing happened to the Russian women’s team, as the Fabulous Five nailed their final routines and brought home a gold medal. Go US!
Since I last sat down to share my thoughts on this blog, I’ve been reeling from another kind of feeling that has nudged me off my game. Completely, it seems, judging from the time lapse (almost a full month) since I last posted.
This summer has been unusually difficult, and while I could list a slate of reasons–a broken-down laptop that has made two round-trip journeys to Dell and yet still overheats, rejection from a “big name” women’s magazine that I had pinned my hopes (and a heart-in-my-throat essay) on, continual challenges to Edwina’s health, the list could go on–I can’t help but think it’s something more than the day-in, day-out challenges that are getting me down.
I am officially burnt out. Tired. Worn. Frustrated. Facing writer’s block and not caring much. Have I actually closed the door on my ambitious, creative self, the same self that I’ve relied on for years to be an open window to new possibilities?
It’s a feeling akin to the weariness you feel when a flu bug grabs hold and won’t let go. Try as you might to get through the day, at some point there’s no choice but to give into the exhaustion, head to bed, and wish for renewed strength tomorrow.
Sometimes, just a few hours beneath the covers does the trick. Other times, waking up to a better day takes more time.