I'm tired.

Enough is enough! I am tired. Shit, I am tired of saying I’m tired.

Look, ladies and gentlemen, this game we call life is highly overrated, and I’m over it. And please don’t call me because you have some sort of “save her, oh Lord” complex. I don’t want to hear it. Don’t text me saying, “Lovely, you’re beautiful, smart, and wonderfully made, and you got this—just keep your head up.” FUCK THAT!

Look, I’m ready to throw it all away and light it on fire. I’m ready to change my name and move to some far-off country and live in a cabin in the mountains. That’s how bad things are. I’ve been living on autopilot for most of my life, and it’s about damn time I woke the fuck up, swam to the surface, and breathed. Actually take in a full gulp of air—pure and life-saving air. Being in survival mode is ass. Straight ass crack. I can’t keep pretending anymore.

A bitter and god-awfully mean woman lives underneath survival mode, and I don’t know if I can keep her at bay. I am so sorry, my love—she has shown her face over the past few months. You are not to blame. I made the realization today that the dreams of getting a corporate job and making six figures are quite far from my reach. The purchase of land big enough to house a family compound, gardens, a farm, and tiny cabins for vacationers is smoke in the wind. A husband and 3 or 4 kids with a dog, a cat, and a cow named Kelly running around the backyard seems like a wild imagination.

So, I’m here to say I’ve given up on myself and my dreams. Shit, my dreams change every so often. Once, I was gonna go to Paris after high school. Second, I was going to acquire Anna Wintour’s job as Editor-in-Chief for Vogue magazine. I was gonna travel the world writing fashion exposés and living a beautiful, luxurious life. And somewhere in the mix of all that, I got scared and had to do the hard things. Now, dammit, I’m stuck. Blinded by bill after bill. Shit, student loans—I wish those were eradicated.

I work a job where I have to tell adults what to do and how best to do it. Guys, managing sucks ass. Who created this shit? I’m shit-deep in depression spells that are hard to shake off. I don’t really go out anymore. I have a bedtime, which has helped improve my mood and energy throughout the day. But dammit, I’m 27 years old, and I have a bedtime.

Oh, the job search is going to shit too. Every position I see that I’m interested in wants you to come with experience. I just want to get back into the fashion world, make a great name for myself, and bring home the goods. I actually want to go to work—or own a business—and love what I do. I help others achieve their dreams or whatever it is they do, but is there anyone out there helping me with mine? I serve and I serve and I serve, but there is no one at my door returning the favor.

Fuck this. When is it my fucking time? When is Jasmine going to get her big break and win the lottery? Because I need some serious cash—life-altering investments that could fund my grandbabies if I’m blessed to have and see them. Where is that vacation, that sabbatical that opens spiritual awakening? Here I am rattling off what I want and not showing you all in detail what’s really going on. Well, here you go.

My soul is dying—it’s taking its last breath. I’m drowning in this vast ocean, screaming on the inside, masking it with a face that reads something… what, I don’t know. I can’t speak and explain how I feel—words don’t come out anymore. “I don’t know” is haunting my relationship.

My love, you are the sweetest soul, and I am so blessed to have found you. But I’m unwell. Truly unwell. I’m tired—and, babe, I’m sick of saying I’m tired. If you find it in your heart to forgive me someday, know that I love you. Forever and always. That, I know for sure.