Burnout Wears Lip Gloss Some Days

Good Wednesday Morning Peps! We are halfway through the week. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I feel like I’m somewhere between “I’m going to get shit finally done today” and “Why do I have so much to do today?” Questions, most of us parents, ask ourselves before we start the major overhaul of our homes. 

With school now in full swing around here, I’m week 2 into having the Gremlin out of the house during the day. You would think moving through the house would be easier. It isn’t. Mostly because I’m still battling exhaustion, depression, and burnout. An uphill battle that has me feeling like the worst version of myself, even though no one else sees the fight. 

Burnout isn’t always messy. Sometimes it gets dressed, throws its hair up in a mess bun, prays the clothes are clean and pretends it has its life together. Because God forbid people actually see the mess our lives really are, and fully understand we are holding it together with hopes, dreams, and a caffeine addiction. Hell, some operate off pure damn rage and spite. 

That’s the default version I run off of more often than not. The one who folds laundry like a champ, checks things off lists, and still looks presentable enough to trick the world into thinking she’s thriving. It’s the “I’ve got this” version that I’ve accepted is all smoke and mirrors. That only a very slim amount of people knows where to look for the cracks.

Here’s what it really looks like:

Waking up at 3am because the Gremlin needed something or the meds burned through his system too quickly, and your brain decides to stay awake even after they’re back asleep, because we aren’t sure if we or our partner will hear the alarm. Then it's “where’s the socks?”, “That shirt doesn’t go with those shorts.”, “Did you check his backpack?” and that’s all before coffee has passed your lips. 

Then you find yourself either starting your day or laying down for just a few hours. But by the time you rejoin the land of the living shit has gone sideways, it's now noon, and the bus will be back with the little in less than two hours. OR you find yourself sitting in silence at 8 a.m. because it’s the only quiet you’ll get all day. 

Already negotiating with yourself about which fires can actually burn a little longer before you deal with them. Mapping out zones in your head like you’re planning a military operation. Zone 1 (the kid’s room, bathroom, hallway), Zone 2 (living room, staging ground), and so on. Oh, and let's not talk about that story line that has been playing in your head like a bad 90s jingle.  

Burnout wears a tank top, ripped jeans, falling apart sneakers, and just enough eyeliner to keep anyone from looking too closely at fractured puzzle pieces. Burnout wears lip gloss when I fold two loads of laundry and put them away like it’s proof I’m still a functional adult. 

It wears lip gloss when I tell myself I’ll write for forty-five minutes and then tackle another corner of chaos. It wears lip gloss when I walk into the living room, gather every misplaced piece of laundry, and drag it all into the kitchen staging area, so I can trick myself into believing I’m making progress. It’s not screaming at the top of my lungs for help that honestly will not come. 

From the outside, it looks productive. From the inside, it feels like I’m dragging myself through molasses in -40 weather. The lip gloss is just the cover. The shine. The illusion. That keeps my ass sane when this crazy shit is my life. This is my monkeys and circus, but no one ever said I was actually in charge when they were running with scissors. 

That’s the sneaky part about burnout; it doesn’t always look like collapse. It doesn’t always look like falling apart on the bathroom floor or crying in the car. Sometimes it looks like a one-woman wrecking crew who gets 75% of the house wrangled by bedtime. Sometimes it looks like competence. Sometimes it even looks like success.

But the shine wears off. And when it does, what’s left is the part I have to remind myself is okay: the unfinished rooms, the skipped chores, the writing that waits until tomorrow. Because pretending I’m fine doesn’t actually refill the tank. And these days I’m running through spoons and fucks like there is a dump truck of both sitting in the yard.

Burnout in lip gloss is still burnout. And no matter how good I get at disguising it, I don’t have to prove anything to anyone. I don’t owe anyone my explanations, time, or energy. I do owe myself honesty, grace, and a little credit. Some days, “good enough” is enough.

So, when you find yourself on the other side, trying to catch a break, know you are not alone. Shit happens and as long as the kids are fed, they have clean clothes for the next day, and the animals didn’t end up with a surprise haircut, its fine. Everything is fine. The world is on fire, but it was on fire yesterday so its fucking fine.

Now go get you something to drink, sit in peace for a few more minutes, then rock that bitch like it owes your ass money. I’ll catch you tomorrow or the day after.

Be Brave, Be Bold, But Always Stay Humble.