Life & Love · The Lori Diaries
There is a particular kind of tiredness that has nothing to do with how much sleep you've had. It happens after a phone call that goes on longer than you wanted, a coffee where you barely manage to finish a sentence, or a conversation you spend most of trying to keep someone else happy. You get home, put your things down, and realise you feel strangely relieved that it's over. You care about the person. You might even love them. So why does spending time together leave you feeling as though you need to recover?
I've been thinking about the people we sometimes call energy vampires.
I know. It's a dramatic expression. It makes it sound as though someone is wandering around in a black cape, waiting to steal the last bit of patience you have left.
Real life is usually much less theatrical.
Sometimes it's a friend who only seems to remember your number when something has gone wrong. Sometimes it's a colleague whose every inconvenience becomes your emergency. Sometimes it's someone you genuinely enjoy, except you never quite know which version of them you're going to meet.
You may leave one conversation laughing and the next one questioning everything you said.
And because there isn't always one terrible incident to point to, it's easy to dismiss the feeling.
Maybe I'm being too sensitive. Maybe they're just having a bad week. Maybe I should be a better friend.
But what happens when every week is a bad week, and somehow you're the one expected to make it better?
First, I Don't Think Everyone Who Needs Us Is an Energy Vampire
Before anything else, I think we need to be careful with this label.
An energy vampire isn't a medical diagnosis or a neat category of human being. It's a way of describing an interaction that leaves someone emotionally drained.
And I don't want to confuse a draining interaction with a bad person.
We all go through periods when we're difficult company. We worry. We complain. We repeat the same story because we're still trying to make sense of it.
Sometimes we need someone to listen to us for a little longer than usual.
That's part of having relationships.
If a friend is going through a breakup, I don't expect her to ask about my weekend every five minutes to prove that our friendship is balanced. If someone I love is struggling, I don't want to keep a mental spreadsheet of how much emotional support I've given them.
Caring for people isn't supposed to be a transaction.
But I also don't think caring for someone should mean there's never any room for you.
For me, the difference is less about how much a person talks about their problems and more about what happens when I have needs of my own.
Can I tell them I'm tired? Can I disagree without being punished for it? Can I say I don't have time today and trust that they'll understand?
Or does the entire relationship seem to depend on me never saying no?
When Every Conversation Somehow Becomes About Them
I think we've all experienced a conversation that begins with us trying to share something and ends with us comforting the other person.
You mention that work has been stressful. They interrupt with a story about how their job is even worse.
You tell them about something exciting. Before you've finished, they've found a reason to make it about themselves.
You try to explain that something they said hurt you, and suddenly you're reassuring them that they're not a terrible person.
One conversation like that might mean very little. We all get distracted, misread a moment, or say the wrong thing.
But when it happens repeatedly, you can start editing yourself.
You tell them less. You avoid certain subjects. You decide not to share your good news because you don't want to deal with whatever reaction might follow.
Eventually, you may realise you know almost everything about what's happening in their life, while they have very little idea what's happening in yours.
And the strange part is that the relationship can still look perfectly close from the outside.
You talk all the time.
You just don't always feel heard.
The Guilt Is Often More Exhausting Than the Conversation
I don't think the most tiring part of these relationships is always the other person's behaviour.
Sometimes it's the amount of energy we spend convincing ourselves that we're not allowed to be tired.
We tell ourselves a good friend would answer the phone. A caring partner would be more understanding. A helpful colleague would just do the favour and stop making such a big deal out of it.
And so we say yes.
Yes, I can talk. Yes, I'll help. Yes, it's fine.
Even when it isn't.
Then we feel resentful, which brings its own little wave of guilt because the other person didn't necessarily know we wanted to say no.
It's a rather exhausting cycle.
I'm beginning to think that being kind and being endlessly available are two very different things.
I can care about someone without being their only source of reassurance. I can listen to a problem without taking responsibility for solving it. I can love someone and still want an evening that belongs entirely to me.
None of that has to mean I care any less.
Being a good person doesn't mean you have to be available every time someone else needs something.
I've Started Paying Attention to How I Feel Afterwards
I used to think the best way to protect myself was to become better at identifying difficult people.
Was this person selfish? Were they manipulative? Did they mean to make me feel bad?
Those questions can take up an extraordinary amount of mental space, especially when the answers aren't obvious.
The truth is, I can't always know what someone intends.
I can, however, pay attention to what keeps happening.
Do I feel comfortable being honest with them? Is there space for my feelings as well as theirs? Can we have a disagreement without it becoming a punishment?
And perhaps the simplest question of all: do I generally feel like myself around this person?
I don't mean that every interaction has to leave me cheerful and energised. Some of the most important conversations in life are difficult.
But there's a difference between feeling tired because you helped someone through something painful and feeling tired because you've spent two hours trying not to upset them.
One can bring you closer.
The other can make you wonder how much longer you can keep doing it.
A Boundary Doesn't Have to Be a Grand Announcement
When I hear the word boundaries, I sometimes imagine a dramatic conversation in which someone explains all their feelings perfectly and the other person immediately understands.
I wish.
In real life, it might be as ordinary as saying, "I want to hear about this, but I can't talk properly tonight."
Or, "I can help for half an hour, but I can't take the whole thing on."
Or even, "That joke hurt my feelings. Please don't make it again."
None of those sentences is particularly dramatic.
They just make something clear that the other person might otherwise be expected to guess.
And I think that's important, because silently reaching your limit and hoping someone notices isn't always fair to either of you.
Of course, some people won't like the change.
If they're used to being able to call whenever they want or expect you to rearrange your plans, a simple no might feel unfamiliar.
They may be disappointed. They may even be annoyed.
I don't think every disappointed reaction means the relationship is doomed.
What matters is whether the two of you can talk about it and make room for each other, or whether your limits are repeatedly treated as something to push past.
A boundary isn't really a way of controlling what someone else does.
It's a decision about what I'm willing and able to do.
I can't make someone speak kindly to me. I can tell them I won't continue a conversation in which I'm being insulted.
I can't make someone stop calling late at night. I can choose not to answer when I need to rest.
It sounds simple written down.
Saying it out loud can take a little more practice.
Sometimes the Relationship Can Change. Sometimes It Can't.
I don't love the idea that the answer to every difficult relationship is to cut someone off.
There are friendships worth working on. Family relationships that are complicated but meaningful. Colleagues we have to find a way to work with, even if we wouldn't choose to spend our free time together.
Sometimes one honest conversation can make a difference.
Maybe the other person didn't realise how often they interrupted. Maybe they assumed you were happy to help because you always said yes. Maybe you both fell into a habit that isn't working particularly well anymore.
I think those possibilities deserve some room.
But I also believe there's a point when repeatedly explaining the same hurt becomes its own kind of exhaustion.
If someone continues to dismiss your feelings, ignores your limits, or makes you feel guilty every time you have a need of your own, you don't have to keep finding more elaborate ways to justify yourself.
Perhaps you talk less often. Perhaps you keep certain subjects private. Perhaps you decide that the relationship needs more distance than it used to have.
That doesn't have to come with a dramatic declaration about what kind of person they are.
You can simply recognise that the way things are isn't working for you.
I Want to Leave Room for the People Who Leave Room for Me
There is another side to all of this that I don't want to forget.
If I spend so much time managing relationships that exhaust me, I have less time and patience for the people who make me feel comfortable being myself.
The friend who asks how I am and actually listens to the answer.
The person who celebrates my good news without immediately comparing it with their own.
Someone who understands that I can care about them very much and still need to go home, put my phone down, and have a quiet evening.
Those relationships might not feel particularly dramatic.
They may not involve long, emotional conversations every other day or constant reassurance that everything is okay.
Sometimes they're just easy.
And the older I get, the more I appreciate that.
I want people in my life who can come to me when things are difficult. I also want to be able to go to them.
I want to be there for the people I love without feeling that the whole relationship might collapse if I need something for myself.
I don't think that's asking for a perfect friendship, relationship, or family.
I think it's asking for a little space to be human on both sides.
Maybe that's why I've become less interested in figuring out who deserves the label energy vampire.
I don't need to decide whether someone is a villain before I'm allowed to notice that a relationship is wearing me down.
I can be compassionate about what they're going through and honest about what I have left to give. I can offer support without promising more than I can manage. And I can take a step back without needing to prove that the other person is entirely in the wrong.
Because I don't want to become someone who avoids everyone with a problem. I want to be a person the people I love can count on.
I just want to remember that I'm a person who needs looking after, too.
Have you ever realised that a relationship was taking more out of you than you knew how to give? I'm curious whether you've found it harder to set a boundary or to stop feeling guilty about having one.
xoxo,
Lori
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