I am really struggling. My mind is 100% elsewhere. I am stressed. My hair is falling out. My stomach hurts all the time. I play with my daughter and I’m thankful she doesn’t know what the dark circles under my eyes mean. When I can, I lay under blankets and I stare at the clock, watching the numbers change, counting to sixty, watching the numbers change.
I carry on my day-to-day and feel like it’s all so stupid. Write and edit and rewrite and delete. Know that someone will disagree, know that someone will jump all over me. I can’t find the energy to care and I don’t know if that’s good or bad. Write, edit, delete. I tell myself things. I lie to myself. What do you do when the story isn’t yours, but it’s all you can think about? You put on the face and you write around it. And you hate yourself for acting like everything’s OK, but you don’t know what else to do.
For the last two years and ten-plus months, I’ve counted away from something. I’ve tried so intensely to stop calculating days and start cataloguing memories. I succeed most days. Other days, weeks like now, I have numbers and predictions and dates swirling in my head and I am completely failing at keeping my head above it all. I don’t want to count toward something. Not this.
I wrote this, and six days later I found out I was going to experience the other side and gah, life is so unfair, can someone else learn that lesson now? We’ve all had enough.
Experience has taught me that I’m in a low point and that things will get better. Although, things aren’t going to get “better,” they’re going to get worse and I know I need to get myself up before the waves pull me completely under and out to sea. But maybe soon I will be able to deal with everything a little better. I’ll put on my fake smile. Eventually it won’t always be fake, and I’ll find a way to put one foot in front of the other, and to carry the ones that need some extra help.
And I will lean on you, and hopefully you will let me.