I woke up early. Not fifteen or twenty minutes early or even when the rising sun peeked in my window. I woke up around three in the morning, not because any alarms were set or any loud noises woke me from my slumber. My sleep is always spotty and restless, frequently dotted with anxiety and depression-laden nightmares. Most nights, I’m lucky if I get more than five hours of sleep. Last night was no different.
I laid there feeling empty and stressed for hours, my thoughts racing, unable to get back to sleep. When his alarms began going off three hours later, I resigned myself to the fact that there would be no more sleep for me today.
I helped him get ready for work, timidly smiling as I ushered him out the door. I said nothing about how I was feeling because I did not want to burden him with things he had no control over. Easier to smile and to pretend, even though I know deep down I’m not kidding anyone. Not myself. Not him.
After he drove away, I sat on the couch ruminating about everything I have to do today. I sat there immobile for hours, beating myself up for all those things I should be doing. I put a movie on, but it turns out it was for background noise more than anything, because I cannot recall anything about it.
I sat, I laid this way and that, I tossed on the couch for hours, not even quite sure why I was in such a funk today. I felt lost and alone, the world utterly hopeless, which made no sense because things truthfully aren’t going that badly right now. Yet those feelings were there all the same. I couldn’t shake them, couldn’t stop them, any more than I could mute all those thoughts racing through my mind.
It was noontime before I managed to pull myself up. There were days mountain climbing would take less effort. I had been awake for 9 hours, out of my bed for six. I was already exhausted and ready to climb back into bed. Yet I managed to prepare some fresh salsa and straighten up the small mess I made on the counter today, piling those dishes on the side. The dishes from yesterday still sit in the sink. I ruminate about whether I’ll be able to wash them today. I know I should. But some days I just don’t have the energy.
I spent the majority of the afternoon watching an old series on television. I know that I’ve seen it all before, which is a good thing because re-watching those episodes today was a blur. I tried playing a game. I tried checking my social media. The truth is that I have no interest in anything today, no ability to focus on anything.
I want to scream and shout. I want to cry. I want to laugh at the pure insanity of it all. I want these feelings to stop, this pain to stop. I desperately want to be happy, to not have my mental illness always leaving a thick, dark sludge over everything in my life. It taints everything. Even the most delicious food tastes bland, the most upbeat music feels melancholy. I don’t understand why my own mind would do this to me, why it wants me to hate my life, to hate myself.
It’s an hour until he is due back home. All I have to show for the day so far is a container of salsa. Strangely, even that feels like a victory.
I tell myself I will get to those dishes right after I finish writing this. I don’t know if I will but I’m trying to be hopeful and positive. I’m not sure I really feel it or believe it, though. People say “fake it until you make it”. I do it every single day when I try to encourage myself that today will be better, that I will be better today. It all feels like lies because nothing ever seems to get better. Yet part of me remains hopeful.
I breathe deeply and try to re-center myself. I wash the tears from my face. I mentally prepare myself to paint that smile back on my face, to pretend I am doing better than I truly am. I know that, as long as I can force a grin and my cheeks are not salty from tears, he will assume today at least wasn’t an absolutely horrible day and not bring it up. I actually prefer that today because I’m not even truly sure what has me so shaken to the core. I wouldn’t even know what to say if he asked what was wrong. I just know those feelings are there.
I do a mental tally of what foods we have that would be quick and easy because I’m not sure I have the energy to make anything more than that. Truthfully, I don’t think I even have the energy to do that, but I’m terrified of letting him down, of disappointing him, of him thinking for even a moment that I am as worthless as I feel inside.
I catch myself, reminding myself that he would never say that, never think that. That is my depression talking. Part of me knows my depression lies, yet those sentiments always feel so real.
I settle on an easy dinner and turn back to do one last proofread. I tell myself that writing this is a huge accomplishment, that I should be proud of myself for opening up at all. It doesn’t feel like an accomplishment, though. It feels like nothing, a waste of time. I feel like a waste of space. I question why anyone would even want to read this, to hear anything I have to say.
Again, I catch myself. Easily, a dozen times a day I realize I am spewing that narrative, buying into depression’s lies. Part of me wants to scream “shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!”. Unfortunately, though, stigma already has many people assuming that those with a mental illness are crazy. I can’t feed their ignorance and their fears. Still, I wish my mind would go silent.
I’ve done very little today beyond battling my own mind. That, and beating myself up for everything that I haven’t done. It feels like I’ve gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion. I’m already exhausted and ready for bed. Ironically, I know when I finally get to go to bed, I won’t even be able to sleep. I’ll lay there like I do every night because my mind never shuts up. The words might alternate between despair and emptiness, but the endless chatter always remains.
Today is supposed to be World Mental Health Awareness Day, but in truth it could be any random, generic day to me. They all bleed together, all feel the same. The intensity varies day to day but the struggle is always there. The world only schedules awareness one day a year but it is my reality every day.