Home / Blog Posts / Fatigue and the Black Dog / Diary of a Chronically Exhausted Vicar. Episode 16

Catalogue of feeling.

Diary of a chronically exhausted vicar image

Foggy. My mind cannot see, cannot think clearly. My mouth speaks only slowly, slightly slurred, sounding vague.
Tired. Goes without saying, I suppose, with this diagnosis. It is a heavy tiredness, a weighted blanket that gives no comfort.
Stifled. Creativity smothered, will depleted. I do not recognise me.
Wishful. I wish this would go away. I wish I could return.

Achy. Headaches and old aches I thought long gone. Muscles. All the muscles. It hurts to move, to be still, to breathe. It hurts. To breathe.
Lonely. Not that I want to see anyone, I have no capacity to be, to receive, company. But I am, utterly,

Bored. So I shop, online, spend more money than is wise. It does bring other humans to the door, when they bring the things, brief moments of connection requiring little effort, and then …
Grateful. Brief moments of connection from friends sending messages asking nothing in return knowing nothing is all I have to give them in this moment.
Hope. Tiny glimpses of it, in the sunshine at lunch time, in the waking having slept deeply after renewing practices of stretches, meditation.
Tired. I am the shoreline to fatigues indefatiguable wearing away.
Surprised. The hours I can spend doing nothing in a chair, not dreaming, not thinking, not sleeping. Nothing. I have an abundance of nothing to give in this moment.

Bored. So I put the things together, but cannot put the things together fully without the strength in the muscles that ache with the weight of this fatigue and I hate this.
Angry. I hate this.

Resigned. I cannot fight this, cannot control this, cannot even, not yet, properly name this. I can only feel this