I have been trying to pretend to be okay. Because fake it till you make it, right? And no one likes whining.
But fuck it, because you know what? My pain is real and if you are in pain, I want you to know your pain is real too and admitting to it isn’t a weakness. It doesn’t matter how many bad things happen to you in a row, if it’s a string of bad luck of just a combination of your own exhaustion leading you astray.
If you are hurting, it’s true. You don’t need a doctor’s note. You don’t need anyone else to say it’s fair enough. You feel it.
Last week I was able to admit in therapy that I have fallen into a depressive episode. It’s happened before when life got so tough I couldn’t see a way out.
And I can’t right now.
It doesn’t mean it’s not there, but I can’t believe in it myself. That’s what depression is, hopelessness. I do my best to look at the little blessings and appreciate what I do have, but when you are not getting your basic needs met, a bit of sunlight doesn’t quite cut it.
I’m in pain and sleeping badly because my second attempt at Airbnb has a terrible mattress and I am so tired that I just want to cry at random points during the day. When I’m “home”, sometimes do. I want to tell people close to me about how I feel bad and I feel like I shouldn’t because they will think I’m too needy or demanding (Airbnb 1 was so noisy I couldn’t sleep, so noisy the customer service lady I called could hear it in the call and told me she didn’t need more evidence). I have to keep telling myself that I’m not alone and that I’m not asking for too much, just for what I need.
I’m not sure what to do right now, whether I’ll be moving again soon. Last week, I started on my calming drops (they are seriously strong, but they make me feel bland, just like antidepressants), but otherwise I’m allowing myself to feel this way.
And in a lesson I learned from someone who once loved me deeply enough to show me a way to love myself in deed when I couldn’t any other way: I’m doing what needs doing anyway, going for a walk, making food I don’t want to eat and eating it anyway, sitting in a café and editing, doing the paperwork and the doctor visits in hopes someone will be able to tell me how not to be in pain all the time (this feels the most hopeless of all).
I’m making progress, last month I wrote over 48,000 words and edited even more—that’s my best in all my recorded history of words. I don’t always feel the words and I just have to keep going anyway and hope that I’m getting something good out past the filter of greyness that covers my world right now. Other days, the joy and the pain of the characters peek out and I know. It helps a lot, but I can’t count on it.
That’s the thing, I can’t count on anything to make it better, there is only the work.
This week I have promised myself to attend an exercise class of some kind, so I’m putting it down here in writing.
I hope to have a more writerly update later, but I felt called to share this today.
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