I’m Fucking Tired
notes on collective and personal exhaustion, and the fear of return
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(trigger warning: mention of r*pe, genocide, misogyny)
I’ve been feeling extremely apathetic lately, a relatively foreign feeling, as someone who uses their rage as fuel to write for connection, and not only for my healing and trauma work, but to contribute to the ongoing efforts of other feminists who also believe in the revolution. But right now, I am exhausted, as I know many of us are, and I realized this after a conversation with my friend and musician Debbie Christ, who shared her recurring experiences with collective and capitalist exhaustion. I resonated so deeply with the way she described it to me, that I had to write about this shared feeling of general malaise with the hopes of figuring it out and relieving it.
Even without the chronic use of social media, it’s difficult to ignore or even avoid the cyclical tragedies that permeate through our feeds, casual discourse, and societies. Piled with personal trauma, the attempt to remain actively motivated is currently a large task for many of us, especially those of us who aren’t privileged or have mental illnesses. We deserve rest, and it’s important to be gentle with ourselves right now.
I wake up tired most days. Because of the ever growing uncertainty of our collective (and personal) futures, my mind hyper-focuses on instant gratification and chaos — which historically has reflected unhealthy coping mechanisms for me. I know that I do not enjoy chaos or uncertainty, not simply because of my severe neurodivergency, nor my Mars in Capricorn or my INTJ personality type, but because I am hyper self-aware enough to catch myself in the moments I attempt to resist chaos from consuming me.
And while I attempt, there has been very little to feel hopeful for or look forward to. I don’t have it in me to feel hopeful, and as someone who thrives on being an idealist, this is painful to feel. This feels different than neurodivergent burnout or a chronic depression slump. This particular feeling of apathy has a sense of permanency. And I am aware of my privilege, so please don’t ask me to practice gratitude right now.
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I think I burnt out after Palestine “broke the internet.” I have been aware of the Israeli nation-state’s genocidal violence for many years, but there is something compelling about most of the globalized world waking up and paying attention, but also for taking initiative — what seemed like infinite social media posts, fundraisers, and protests — Palestine has never before received that kind of attention, admitted by Palestinians themselves, since Israel’s settler colonial occupation began in 1948. That’s 73 years.
Seven decades of witnessing genocide, loss of wealth and property, of community. However, Palestine has quickly reverted to being the Palestine many of us were previously familiar with, but chose to ignore or remain ignorant about. It feels as if the collective burst of energy we had over the past year supporting Black, Indigenous and Palestinian Liberation has slowly begun to wither away, if it has not already. Not for all of us of course, especially not for those who live through these realities, as well as many activists and academics, but on a mass global scale? For those of us who are privileged enough to ignore it?
And now we’ve returned to square zero, and it feels as if nothing has truly substantially changed, except for mass numbers of compassion fatigued bodies, activist burn out, and millions of voices being silenced and retraumatized, over and over again. When will this cycle end? When will we decide to do the work as a collective, instead of running away from it, distracting and numbing ourselves? When will oppressive structures dismantle and provide us with the resources that we need for healing our communities? When will we realize that our inherent privileges > others causes more harm than anything else? (Unless you’re a neoliberal dudebro!). When will it change?
The neoliberal achievement society makes exploitation possible even without domination. The disciplinary society with its commandments and prohibitions, as analyzed by Michel Foucault in his Discipline and Punish, does not describe today’s achievement society. The achievement society exploits freedom itself. Self-exploitation is more efficient than exploitation by others because it goes hand in hand with a feeling of freedom. Kafka expressed with great clarity the paradox of the freedom of the slave who thinks he is the master. In one of his aphorisms he writes: “The animal wrests the whip from its master and whips itself in order to become master, not knowing that this is only a fantasy produced by a new knot in the master’s whiplash.” This permanent self-flagellation makes us tired and, ultimately, depressed. In a certain respect, neoliberalism is based on self-flagellation.”
— an excerpt on neoliberal establishment from The Tiredness Virus by Byung Chul-Han
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“There is no ‘post’ because the trauma is repetitive and ongoing and continuous. I think we need to be authentic about our experiences and not to try to impose on ourselves experiences that are not ours” explains Samah Jabr, chair of the mental health unit at the Palestinian Ministry of Health. Jabr provides an adequate example of PTSD, which is the stereotypical case of the US war solider who returns from Vietnam and is diagnosed with trauma from a single event. What Jabr may be referring to in the case of Palestinians is most likely Complex PTSD. C-PTSD is diagnosed on the basis of recurring traumatic events over a consecutive period of time.
For Palestinians, C-PTSD may look like an infinite loop of fear and subsequent trauma. “Post” signifies the aftermath, the end of something. Maybe it would look like the end of the cataclysmic violence and heart-wrenching fear, of sleepy-eyed parents anxiously checking if their sleeping children and neighbourhood are safe, of fearing for one’s life while running errands at the grocery store — a task we do so easily and freely in the West — an unshakeable sense of fear that devours one’s psyche, of a persistent and paranoid chokehold, and a permanent feeling of not just unsafety, but explicitly danger.
The pandemic has also led to a collective form of PTSD that many (if not most) of us are experiencing. Those of us in the Global North appear to be in the ‘limbo’ stage of being fully vaccinated, that is, getting drunk inside bars, attending outdoor raves, eating a meal inside a restaurant without a mask on — or if you’re in the US — hardly wearing masks at all. We are far more privileged than the Global South, who continues to battle with the pandemic, its variants and mutations, and is in need of vaccines.
I struggle with the guilt of being in this privileged position, by being physically located in as well as possessing citizenship of a Global North country, and I am frightened, because I worry that once again things will exceed beyond our control. I worry that vaccine greed and elitism will leave many in a precarious position. With climate change, record-breaking and life-taking heat temperatures, and an ocean literally on fire — I am terrified. I have been so fearful that I feel numb to feeling any more fear. I feel nothing these days, and feeling nothing is often a very dangerous thing to admit.
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Much of my rage stems from being born female in Pakistan, where I was subsequently raised for much of my young adolescence. Because of my Cancer Moon (10th house baby, whaddup unwarranted fame), I’ve held on to the idea of Pakistan being ‘home’ for most of my life. Even after moving to Toronto as a teenager, I experienced phases of being enmeshed in Pakistani social groups and intimate relationships, and most of my work has focused on Pakistan and the psychosocial role it played in my trauma. I like to refer to this as a form of ‘banal nationalism,’ a term coined by Michael Billing, referring to the mundane, everyday symbols of nationalism present in a nation-state (such as flags, monuments, the recitation of the national anthem, etc). For me, however, this banal nationalism exceeds geographical borders and instead, migrated with me to the West.
People have accused me of hating my country because I either make it look bad or speak badly about it, but my authentic feelings are far more nuanced than these simple accusations.
In her book The Politics of Trauma, Staci K. Haines shares an important point regarding belonging: “I also want to talk about land and belonging. This does not mean owning land, or even living in a particular nation-state. Rather, this is a connection to place, to land, that forms an aspect of our identity, our community, our belonging. For most of human history we have been deeply connected to, and a part of, the land. I believe this lives deep in our cellular memory.”
When you deeply care for something (in this case, the land that the ideological nation-state of Pakistan occupies), you don’t let it rot and consume itself further after experiencing trauma (in this case, colonization) through its own pain/violence. You call it in, you attempt to nurture it, and you hold it accountable and ask it to self-reflect. This is similar to what Indigenous people struggle against with the Canadian nation-state, with whom they have a violent, abusive relationship with. But if you attempt to do that with Pakistan, you’re either slut-shamed or shot dead.
What does that tell us?
I empathize because I understand Pakistan’s trauma as a nation-state. I empathize because I understand the affects of British colonialism, Western imperialism, and white supremacy on not just Pakistan, but the globalized world. But mostly, I empathize because that is the human thing to do. But trauma and mental illness does not excuse someone’s malice, violence, and abuse. And the same applies to Pakistan.
Again, while I am aware of the atrocities that occur under patriarchal Pakistani tutelage, the comments made in this interview by Imran Khan, particularly the one that focuses on survivor-shaming and rape justification, broke me. My female rage, a lifelong companion for much of my existence, has grown apathetic. The realization that this grossly privileged and elitist, Oxford-educated, ex-cricket playing hotshot who was married to the daughter of rich Jewish aristocrats, can publicly denote his misogynistic views on women as the political head of the nation-state — has shattered much of my remaining hopes, hopes that have been consistently fuelled by my rage.
Along with the Usman Mirza incident and the Islamic Council’s attempt to deny the passing of the anti-domestic violence bill — unless the revolution were to happen overnight, my hope is a thin, dangling thread. I am sick and tired of receiving very little, and watching those less privileged than me continue to suffer immensely.
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Black and white thinking will question why I care about Pakistan when I’m in the West, when I should in fact be grateful that I’m a citizen of the Canadian nation-state. It is unfortunate, actually, that I have had to remain in Canada as a forced self-exile. There is nothing wondrous about the xenophobic, racist, settler-colonial Canadian nation-state. And It is devastating to me that because of my feminism and personal choices, I am not considered a welcome presence in Pakistan or even in my own family.
I am a feminist killjoy. But I am also deeply and inherently nostalgic, one foot constantly locked in the past, clutching onto memories and subjective histories, as if it were the only form of tangible reality, and perhaps this is why I gravitate towards academia, even though I know how harmful it can be. But the reality is I could be anywhere in the world and my identity would not fluctuate. My trauma would not disappear, and nor will the longing for my childhood home(s), friends, family, or the familiar scents and tastes that I attempt to find everyday within the diaspora. These things cannot be replaced. But I am burnt out by longing for something that does not want me back. I am horrified by the realization that I am not the only one who feels this way, and that people’s childhood homes are being desecrated every day. And that a return to capitalism (“normalcy”) is much too near, and that many of us are welcoming it.
I am exhausted, potentially even chronically fatigued. But I consumed amphetamine today just to write this piece, because I needed to remind myself how much I do indeed care. How much I believe in transformation, justice, and collective healing. This quote by bell hooks reminds me of the importance of belonging, and loving: “The moment we choose to love we begin to move against domination, against oppression. The moment we choose to love we begin to move towards freedom, to act in ways that liberate ourselves and others.” I want to believe that what I feel right now will, eventually, dissipate. I care to explain this to you, dear reader, because I want you to empathize with me too. I need you to care. We all need to care. I don’t have a poignant or flowery way of saying it right now. The world needs us to care, and we need each other.
If you find value in what I write and would like me to publish more regularly, please consider financially supporting my newsletter, Pestān Stories, by becoming a paid subscriber or PayPal me. If you find value in what I write but can’t financially support it, please share.
