New Post: 2nd Tuesday of the Month
crossing things of my to-do list
depression curls itself around my body, pulling me down, suffocating me in its grip.
i stumble around my one-bedroom apartment, feeling like fried hash browns, shredded, then crisped.
my to-do list crouches in the right-hand corner of my browser. when was the last time i crossed something off? a week? five days? the days are endless and too short. is it thursday?
i wake up at dawn, the sun creeping into my window. i listen to birds: finches, sparrows, mockingbirds, chickadees. they chitter and chatter.
it’s spring, but i don’t feel renewed.
on monday, i’m late for work. then i forget someone’s broth in their take-out order. when i get back home, i contemplate attending a virtual workshop, i look at the agenda, i even text a friend, but depression clenches my intestines, luring me to television’s glow. my depression flirts with me, caresses me as i lay down to watch The Simpsons.
maybe things’ll be better tomorrow. it’s all i can hope for.
on tuesday, i don’t want to get out of bed. i take a tequila shot at noon because the spirits in my flesh are screaming. i draw cards from the mayan oracle, what messages do they have for me? believe in yourself. believe in your power. you are enough. if you fill your cup, you can fill others'. with shaking fingers, i try, but it spills and spills. i bring what little i caught to my lips, but my tongue burns it all away. when the sky darkens, i can’t breathe. my lungs freeze, calcify. tears paint my eyes shut.
by wednesday, i see a glimmer, but depression is a bag i’m stuffed in and someone’s closing it again. the thoughts parading in my head are ghouls. i draw more oracle cards - message is still the same - believe in yourself. how can i? strength leaks out of me like pus from a popped pimple. i drift, miss another workshop.
days wasted. my neck muscles are twisted rope. a fire bubbles. i soothe it. i try. it’s all i can do. it’s thursday, and i’m not okay. maybe i’ll never be, but i’m still fucking here. a friend reminds me that we write because that’s who we are. so i write this, surprised at how easily the words gush from my fingers.
depression rages, makes me forget who i am, and what i do. it tries pushing me off an edge. i yell into the abyss, then jump, my voice vibrating into an echo. my depression cackles, watching me fall.
will i disintegrate into a million pieces? will my echo catch me? is this the end?
i don’t know. it’s not even 9 am yet.
at least i can cross off one thing from my to-do list - write blog entry.
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