No Rest for the Wicked

Lately, I’ve been in a pretty dark place. Not the kind of darkness you can sleep off or shake off with a good meal or a weekend off. I mean real, dragging, heavy kind of darkness that wraps itself around your bones. It’s been illness after illness. My back? Still hurting. The shot I got? Doesn’t feel like it’s done a damn thing. Now I’ve got kidney problems on top of it all. It’s like my body is slowly turning into a junkyard—just worn down, rusting out, and falling apart.

Pain has basically become part of the background noise in my life. Like a crappy old fan that never stops humming. I wake up tired. I go to bed tired. I work like hell every day just to make it to the next, but I’m dragging more and more lately. You know that feeling when your legs feel like concrete and your brain’s stuck in molasses? That’s me. Every. Damn. Day.

I don’t talk about it much. I don’t really want to. Because then people start with the, “Well, you’re just complaining,” or they try to fix you with some cliché advice. And honestly, I don’t want a pep talk—I want a nap. A month-long nap.

My wife’s been on me about not cutting any hours at work. She means well, I know. She’s looking out for us, thinking about the bills and all that. But I don’t think she really sees how close I am to the edge. I’m not lazy. I’ve worked hard my whole life. But I’m burning out. Fast.

Still, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ll do what I always do—suit up, show up, and try to push through. Because that’s what’s expected, right? That’s what men are supposed to do. No rest for the wicked, or the worn-out, apparently.

One of these days, though, something’s gonna give. I just hope it’s not me.