I’ve HAD IT: Choosing Rest Over Wrecked

I've been running on fumes, my tank so far past empty that I'm practically running on the faint memory of gas fumes. Work's been bleeding me dry, leaving me feeling like a hollow, lifeless shell by the time I log off. The second my body hits the couch, I can feel the exhaustion seeping into my bones. It's like my brain is screaming, "Screw this, I'm out!" in a language only I can understand. It’s like I can feel my mind be physically fatigued… it’s kind of hard to explain. And let me tell you, it's scaring the ever-loving crap out of me. I can't help but wonder, "Is this what my Mom felth before Alzheimer's sank its vicious claws into her? Am I staring down the barrel of the same godforsaken fate?" When you've watched a parent be devoured by this merciless disease, these thoughts become the unwelcome squatters in your mind.

I've been trapped in survival mode for so dang long, my body's forgotten how to function in any other state. But here's the brutal truth: staying perpetually wound tight, waiting for the next storm to rain down, it doesn't just ravage your body—it takes a wrecking ball to your mental health. I barely recognize the face staring back at me in the mirror these days. The once patient, positive person I prided myself on being has been replaced by a short-tempered, irritable human. I find myself constantly fantasizing about throat-punching the next person who pushes my buttons or just saying "I’m done" and starting life over somewhere else.

The unrelenting stress has left my immune system in shambles. I'm not just talking about your run-of-the-mill case of the sniffles; this is a soul-crushing, sanity-devouring kind of sick. It's like I'm waging an all-out war against an invisible sickness hellbent on destroying me, and right now, I'm ready to wave the white flag and surrender.

I desperately need to slam on the brakes, to punch the reset button with extreme prejudice. My body is staging a full-blown mutiny, and my soul is screaming its battle cry. This constant state of DEFCON 1 isn't just unsustainable—it's not the life I believe God has in mind for me. Even in the eye of this torm, I can feel Him nudging me towards a new rhythm, a beat where rest isn't just a pipe dream, but a non-negotiable necessity.

There's a nagging pull dragging me towards a new chapter, one where self-care isn't just some buzzword, but a divine directive straight from the big guy upstairs. It's about having the guts to step back when I'm running on empty, to recharge my batteries, and to accept the ego-crushing reality that the world won't go up in flames if I take a breather. Asking for help or dropping some of the weight I've been carrying doesn't make me weak or incapable. The earth will keep on spinning even if I decide to sit this dance out.

I'm realizing that I need to ditch the toxic coping mechanisms that no longer cut it in this new season of life. The days of white-knuckling my way through hell and single-handedly bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders have to make way for a more intuitive approach—one where I actually listen to my body and soul, understanding that true strength is knowing when to say, "I’ve had it. I'm done."

This leg of the journey is undeniably brutal, but I know in my core that I'm not alone in this battle. A higher wisdom is my guiding light, and I'm clinging to that like a life raft in a hurricane.

If you're deep in the trenches with me, barely keeping your head above water as life's relentless demands threaten to pull you under, know this: You are seen. You are valid. And it's abso-freaking-lutely okay to put your own oxygen mask on first, to call a ceasefire and admit that you're not superhuman. There is zero shame in reaching for a lifeline beyond your own self-destructive willpower, in finding solace in the quiet moments, and in trusting that you're being guided forward, even when your only move is to surrender.

Consider this a flare shot up into the night sky, a primal scream for both you and me to embrace a new way of navigating this up-and-down journey called life and caregiving. A season where we unapologetically demand rest, where we reject the toxic grind, and where we understand that our true power lies not in our ability to constantly take hit after hit, but in our courage to rise up and roar, "Enough is enough."