Sometimes I’m really decent with managing my depression. I’ll wake up at 6:30 am, brew a pot of coffee, open my blinds, and immerse myself in posititivity. I’ll work myself out of my funks, through scribbling down all of my racing thoughts, listening to the same happy, sappy songs over and over again until I’m far beyond upset– giddy, even.
Then sometimes I find myself pushing through the same routines to no avail. The incense and yoga doesn’t feel calming, the coffee and cigarette no longer soothing. My bed is my ball and chain and any semblance of life beyond this room seems worse than terrrifying– it doesn’t even feel real.
I’m not proud of myself on days like today. I’m selfish. I can’t make myself want to talk to anyone or complete basic tasks. I don’t want to leave my bed, much less my house. I’m lonely and scared and not entirely sure why, like all of my progress is slipping through my fingers in a matter or seconds.
I get out of my bed, drag myself to make another pot of coffee, and sit down to write for a while. It may not work, but the best I can do is keep trying.