This is a Really Real Mental Health Post.
TW: Mention of Suicidal Thoughts.
I’ve had nothing to write about, really. But the longer I go without writing, the less I want to write, and the more I know I need to write.
I had a great day Sunday. An all day date, of sorts, with Wonder Woman, doing all of the things. An amazing breakfast, good coffee, walking around Annapolis, and dinner at The Melting Pot. One of those days that you want to never end.
But it did.
And I woke up this morning and didn’t want to get out of bed. Eventually, I crawled out of bed, late, and went to the gym, late. And when I got back home I climbed right back into bed.
I crawled back out twice, convincing myself that I had to find something to occupy my time so that I didn’t waste my day away under the covers, but each time I crawled back under, turned off the lights, and rolled over.
The entire time I was beating myself up for how useless I was. And beating myself up over how useless it was to beat myself up.
Finally the suicidal thoughts started creeping in slowly and I rode that wave for a few minutes before they dissipated. If I’m always going to end up stuck in bed again, what’s the point of being alive.
Days like Sunday are the point of being alive. Now, Shut. The Fuck. Up.
The thing is, I’m really in a good place mostly, or I should be. I’m doing all of the right things, I’m taking my meds, I’m getting sun and water and food, and I’m exercising.
Cooperate brain, cooperate.
Eventually I crawled out of bed for good. I did some of the weekly stuff that I never got to this morning, I drank coffee, I freshened the color on my hair, I started dinner.
I know that when I have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning, it’s typically a sign that the day is going to be rough with depression, so I’m hoping tomorrow morning goes better.