I’m exhausted, I say, as they wake me up from my midday nap
Pressed between the ebbing tide of my dog’s rib cage and the coarse sunset fabric of our vintage loveseat
Never mind they spent the last hour coating their throats in fumes as they rinsed and heated
The chile for our meal—lungs coaxed into a violent release
Their hands pulsing with heat from the flame beneath the comal and the timeless tradition of refusing to rely on a contraption like tongs to flip tortillas
They’ve prepared this feast with purpose. With love. I stole a Sunday siesta, bracing myself for the week ahead
I’m exhausted I make my way here on the weekends to be surrounded by laughter, surrounded by light, surrounded by a force that wordlessly entreats me to keep going
Live harder, when all I can conjure is the stamina to make it to my next nap—From 1:00pm to 5:00pm is no easy feat
You need to be more of a joiner, my sister implores, it’ll only help you feel better
I’m not normally like this, I assure myself
Weekdays consist of easily 12 hrs of the employment grind or schoolwork
I attend weekly webinars, and community dialogue circles and take hour-long walks around the neighborhood to keep my mama company
Yesterday I spent my day orchestrating a slice of theory in less than two hours
Insight for my field, I posture and sometimes I fancy myself a creator—a contributor
But some days I feel like all I do is lay still and will people’s life force into my stale cot of a body
Pleading with the universe, or the energetic pools
Or this chaotic fragment of time to dole out a reasonable share
I’m exhausted, I say, as the steam makes its way onto my eyelids
And they shutter closed under the pressure of the shower head
To wash the days away, I often attempt a geyser with porcelain walls
They say women can’t have thick skin
But I invite them to meditate under our igneous waterfalls
Simmering a decisive release of our burdens
I press my hand against the shower and will my legs to hold me up for just five more minutes
If you can’t make it through a cleansing activity, a ritual of solace—
What can you do?
And some days I remind myself that I’ve written 110 pages of critical analysis
And moved to a state all by myself
And placed 1st, 2nd, and 3rd in different spelling bees
And performed in front of hundreds
And had the audience of my heroes at several conferences
I surround myself both interpersonally and aspirationally with powerful thought leaders
And try to purge my life of anything that will not bring radical joy
Sometimes there’s accompanying pain but if there aren’t moments of complete abandon—
What the hell is the point?
Other days, I remind myself it takes me too long to wash the dishes
And I can’t even take care of succulents, let alone myself
And on occasion it’s come to pass that I didn’t drink water until 3pm
A high-functioning depression, my counselor calls it
“It’s natural during this pandemic that this would happen to you.
It’s exacerbating most people’s struggles in some way or another”
I’m exhausted
But nothing about my functioning seems a caliber above struggling to the surface
When I can’t articulate a sentence because my brain won’t capture the words
Words. Those spaces I’ve loved so abundantly
There have been days when I’ve felt chilled to the core
And my teeth chatter all the way through my lesson
My meeting. Moments deemed essential
Nothing cures the frigid spell but half an hour of my face pressed against the warm concrete
My back welcoming the sky
Other times the energy pulses within me
And I imagine 300 measuring cups come to save me before it boils over
Before its generous dose becomes too much to contain
I clench-tight and release my fist, digging my blue gelled fingertips into the pads of my flesh
Sometimes I find a carpeted corner of the house and hurl my body into downward dog—
Willing a head rush to absolve me of these full-bodied pins and needles
This spiritual acrobat fixated against my skin
Occasionally, it’s one hour of barre exercises and deep breathing
Others, I’ll live in for a week
The best coping mechanisms accompany fits of laughter
And enlightenment of the conscience
And trying on new endeavors
And shattering generational curses by pledging allegiance to undoing
And daring yourself to take up space when you’ve spent each of your decades shrinking
At least, in the moments that replenish the soul
“That’s amazing!”
“You’re really doing a great job.”
“You’re a part time sad girl, full time chingona.”
“You’re like a lethargic savant” “Allow yourself the imperfection.”
“You’re one of my favorite people and we’ll catch up someday. We’re all going through it. No pressure.”
I’m exhausted, I say, as I will myself to absorb
Mercedes was born and raised in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she completed her Bachelor of Arts in Chicana and Chicano Studies, concentrating in Intersectional Politics and Social Movements in May 2016. She finished her Master’s Degree in Education, concentrating in Educational Thought and Sociocultural Studies at the University of New Mexico in May 2019.
Mercedes grew up in Albuquerque’s organizing community, has worked with various nonprofits and grassroots organizations, and is devoted to affecting social change while emphasizing commitment to the arts as a mechanism in achieving it. Writing has remained an integral source of power and healing in Mercedes’s life.
Mercedes has worked as a writer for Popejoy, a performing arts venue in Albuquerque, NM, as well as supported in writing pieces for the National Institute of Flamenco. She published her thesis: “Toward a Nuevomexicana Consciousness: An Exploration of Identity through Education as Manifest through the Colonial Legacy”, through the University of New Mexico digital archives in May 2019.