The other morning I woke up to birds chirping and sunlight streaming through my blinds. Instead of contentment, I immediately felt that both were seemingly mocking me.
I wanted it to be raining, to be dark, to have the universe send me a sign that it was okay to feel anything but sunny or happy and light.
Tempted to simply pull up the covers and block it all out—the sun, the sounds, the world—I knew that I wouldn’t, partly because I have a hard time being lazy and wallowing but also because I honestly didn’t have the luxury or the choice to do anything other than pull myself up and prepare for the day.
It went along as normal, and after the responsible things were all done I knew I could go one of two ways—self-destruction (common default) or self-care.
So I thought, “I should write. I should try and write something funny.”
I wanted to (attempt to) be funny, as writing those posts gets me out of my head and it stops me from feeling so shitty. Plus, people like to laugh or talk about themselves more than being faced with the reality of someone else’s struggles—me included.
But sometimes the weight presses down and the funny is squashed under shit. There’s not some “big event” that brings it on, which makes me feel even worse, like I don’t deserve to feel so numb and disconnected.
It simply sneaks up and bites me in the ass and I find myself longing for any kind of escape. It drives me to literally run myself into the ground as I try and run away from it all (an entirely separate post I’ll probably never publish.)
Anyway, I was still at my computer—trying for a “healthy” escape—and thought that maybe I should write some artsy post in which I replace the word “she” for “I” in a way to pretend that I’m really just being creative and not on the low end of the wave.
Well, I tried, and I failed miserably at that, too.
It was at that point that I decided that was a shit idea anyway. The reason I would be doing that wasn’t to be artsy, but rather to hide behind a mask in an effort to make myself look a little bit better than how I really was in that moment—seeing the sun but yet stuck in the dark.
So I ended up with this post, one I probably shouldn’t publish. It’s not funny, it doesn’t really have a theme—it’s just me oversharing a bunch of things with cute pictures from Hyperbole & a Half because they fit and I read people like pictures in posts.
But also because I know that when I get this way I narrow my world down to the bare essentials in an effort to make myself feel safe.
That’s not good.
I reminded myself that this blog is important to me because it’s the one thing that’s allowed me to finally let people in instead of mistrusting them and blocking them out. So instead of worrying about what people think, I figured an emotional purge was a better than the alternative, so here you go.
And don’t worry.
This too shall pass, as it usually does. Sometimes in the same day I hear the birds and smile while 10 minutes later I want to get out a pellet gun and mount the feathered bastard on the wall—metaphorically speaking of course.
I’m envious of those who don’t have to deal with this shit and can just be “okay” without so much effort, but that’s (my) life. And it’s one thing to be envious, but it’s another to be ashamed.
You should never be ashamed.
Unless you’re an adult who uses the word “adorbs” in conversation (topic of a future post.)
Then all bets are off.
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