I realized recently that I say I’m tired a lot. It made me wonder – what does that even mean? I looked up the definition on Google:
Tired
adjective
- In need of sleep or rest; weary.
- Bored with.
I think I sometimes use the word incorrectly. Do you remember when or how you learned the meaning of words that describe feelings? I certainly don’t. I think I learned them through osmosis, or maybe inferred through reading. Well, I must have learned them somewhere along the way.
I once asked my boyfriend how he would describe feeling relaxed. He mentioned a tingling in his fingertips and like his body is floating. Interestingly, this is how I would describe it too. It seems we adopt certain words and definitions based on how we interpret physical sensations in our bodies. Still, there are many times when I find myself attributing a word to a meaning that doesn’t quite fit.
A few years ago, when New York City was beginning to blossom with life again after a pandemic shutdown period, I met with my friend on a sunny weekend afternoon. During the pandemic, our interactions had mostly been through group texts and Facetime calls. It had been a while since we had seen one another. We decided to rendezvous at Bartel-Pritchard Square for a walk around Prospect Park.
I don’t recall if we hugged or not, but I remember feeling happy to see him. The square was full of activity. We passed people parking their Citibikes, children running in circles, and dogs excited to be roaming outside. My friend and I meandered through the park, enjoying the warm weather and lively atmosphere while catching each other up on what’s going on in our lives. Perhaps we talked about work or books we were reading. I felt grateful to be together, witnessing the hopeful energy of Prospect Park.
The hours pass by easily as we walk and talk and laugh. Before I knew it, the golden hour sun began shining through the trees; it was getting late. It was soon after that I started to get “that feeling.” It starts out small, just a little bit uncomfortable. But it was undeniably there, and it’s that same feeling that I have felt many times before. “That feeling” tells me that I want to leave the park to go home and rest.
My friend and I continue to walk– we found ourselves on the running path that loops around the park. We likely kept on talking about something, but it was difficult for me to pay attention with “that feeling” beginning to gnaw at me from the inside. Runners and bikers pass us, basking in the sunny park. They only helped to highlight in me how different and disconnected I felt from everyone else. Am I the only one who feels this way? How come I want to go back home when I’ve spend the entire pandemic being by myself at home? Shouldn’t I want to stay longer? I felt like I am the only one with “that feeling”.
My friend says, “I was thinking we could listen to some music and grab some food.”
I decide it’s a good time to allude to what I’m feeling. I say, “I’m tired. I might head home soon.”
He said, “Okay, well music is that way anyway. Let’s go there.”
I hesitatingly agreed, even when I didn’t want to listen to some music and grab some food. We follow the running path to a spot in front of the baseball fields, where musicians have often played since the pandemic began. Sure enough, a small jazz ensemble was there, with a small crowd gathered around them to enjoy their harmony.
My friend purchases a hot dog from a food cart and we take a seat together on the park benches. The benches faced towards the baseball fields in the distance, away from the musicians, but their soothing melodies could still reach our ears. The sky, a beautiful painting of colors from the setting sun. Yet despite these enchanting, almost perfect circumstances, I was lost in my thoughts, wishing I were the type of person who could effortlessly enjoy such moments. I wished I were the type of person who could spend all night talking to my friends on rooftops with a bottle of wine – like they do in the movies. “The feeling” taunts me, accusing me of being rude and disruptive in a moment that many others are enjoying. It questions my worth as a friend.
Have you ever felt this feeling? It’s what I felt that one time at Prospect Park. It doesn’t quite fit the Google definition, but it’s easier than saying all of this instead. I’d need to evaluate how to craft my message, calculate how they might take it. “Tired.” “Introvert.” Generic terms are less hassle. A small, white lie. If I use those words, I can steer the conversation far away from me needing to talk about how I have been a people pleaser for a long time. Or how social interactions are wonderful for me, but in small doses. How hard it is for me to be myself and say how I feel.
I am scared to talk about these topics and ruin the moment. I am scared to disappoint or reveal too much, although the truth doesn’t seem so bad when I view it from a cold, third-party perspective: I loved spending the afternoon with my friend and there was nothing else in the world that I would have rather been doing. I consider him one of my closest, dearest friends. Now, I really wanted to go home to rest and reflect on the wonderful day we had together.
If I told him that instead, I hope he would have understood.
Often times, the fear of what may happen if I am honest is 1000x worse than what actually happens when I am. So here’s me trying, even though I’m still not good at saying what I feel. It’s awkward and clumsy and may disappoint, but it’s a skill that I want to get better at. I have found that exploring that universe of feelings behind the words helps me understand myself. Learning the vocabulary to share thoughtfully helps me feel more connected to other people, even when it means I’m spending less time with them.
I hope the next time you feel tired, you too can take a moment to invite introspection. What are you really trying to say, and can you share that instead? Perhaps “I’m tired” can be the start of a conversation, rather than the end.