I tire of it.
The machinery –the cogs and wheels and endless, tedious gears– of dragging my misfiring brain through a day with a modicum of dignity and a whiff of grace is an exhausting prospect to meet every morning.
I tire of it, but more importantly I cling to it. I gladly mash my face into its gears each day, vowing never to let go.
The constant paradoxes of mental illness are invisible to most, but are relentlessly present nonetheless.
Yes, I tire of it.