Permission to Burn Out

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There is something wonderfully freeing in granting myself permission to be burned out.

In the last week, I did more editing than in possible a whole month, and I saw the wrap of a play with a ridiculously long run and a hellacious commute. Shows always leave me burned out and exhausted.

But this past Saturday was also my dad’s birthday – would have been his 73rd. In six years, I’ve had lots of wonderfully kind, intelligent people advise me to stay busy this month between his birthday and death day.

Bullshit.

Keeping busy just meant that I actually didn’t know why I was spontaneously crying on the bedroom floor when I needed to be leaving to get the oil changed in my car. Grief: no, it doesn’t get better. You just get better at pushing it aside . . . until your body makes you remember.

So in all the crazy of the weekend, I gave myself permission to steal a few minutes and drive out to the point, to walk out on the rocks and dip my toes in the frigid Atlantic and listen to the distant clanging of the channel marker buoy. The ocean is where I feel especially close to him.

I have stories I need to write for him. Because of him. And I didn’t even know that until I went to the ocean.

Remembering to be kind to myself is an active struggle, so I’m going ahead and giving myself permission to get lost in a book, or manga, or tv show. Editing may happen, but if not that’s ok.

I’m burned out, and that’s ok.

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