I’ve cleaned everything. I’ve Swiffered and dusted and wiped and laundered and lit nice fall-smelling candles and showered and poured a glass of water and chosen the right playlist and put on the comfy sweatshirt and the comfy socks and gotten cozy under the Spider-Man blanket and this is when the words are supposed to show up, right?
In absence of any more distractions, the nerves return to my belly, growling and insistent. The cruel refrains in my head are as loud as ever and I am tired of them. I’m just tired. I am at the bottom of the pit this week and I know there is a “way out,” but I just end up here again, so what’s the point, you know?
Again again again: I feel ungrateful. I feel selfish and petulant. I feel like a liar. Nothing is wrong with me, right? Nothing has ever been wrong with me, right? I’m just an overdramatic weirdo who has made a series of overdramatic weirdo choices and I here I am in bed again, sad and worried and ashamed and tired.
(I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.)
Maybe this is just an accountability post, because I need to talk to someone, but I’m too nervous to reach out directly. (Fuck this stupid brain disease.) I have a therapy appointment tomorrow. I promise to fill out the consent form for the new meds. I’ll go for a walk. I don’t know what else I can promise.
Tonight… I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like I have to keep writing to hang on. This word vomit is all that keeps me tethered. Because if I’m willing to keep talking about it, then I haven’t given up yet, right?
I don’t know. I sort of envision packing a bag and just hitting the open road. There are too many ghosts here and I’m too tired to be brave. Is there somewhere to go just to rest?
There’s this thing I might get to do and I can’t tell you all about it just yet. I hope I get it. I hope I get to tell you all about it. And that thing feels like an opportunity to rest, honestly. A chance to slow down and free myself from some of the heaviness of grief.
It’s been pointed out to me recently that I’m still grieving. That I get to for as long as I need. And, okay, great.
I don’t know who this is for. I don’t know the “why” always of these posts. Only that I feel really lonely and I don’t want to fell that way and maybe you’re sad too and I want you to know you’re not alone. You’re really, really not. I feel too heavy and tired to pick up the phone and call you or even to answer when you call me, but… like, I love you, okay?
You are not alone. You are of value and wonder and I’m glad you’re here. Sometimes I just need to tell you the things that I myself need to hear. I would be so sad if you weren’t here, for whatever that is worth.
Again: you are enough. It’s going to be okay. I wish I knew how.