I’ve brought this page up repeatedly over the past months, trying to verbally explain what has been going on mentally. So far the words continually seemed vapid or selfish or just so poorly written I couldn’t allow them to be read. Today is no different, but I saw a post today about another girl who finally got out of bed and then wrote about having a mental breakdown in the middle of the grocery store because the bread isle was too overwhelming, and I just did the same last week. And for her I join my voice to her attempted explanation.
It is 4:53 pm and I am in my bed. I have been in my bed since 2:00 am last night. On many days, I don’t tend to even get out from under the blankets until seven or eight PM. I don’t work, or rather, I work freelance, which lately has boiled down to simply don’t work, not by my choice but just as I haven’t been hired. I live alone, and currently there are no humans in my life who directly benefit or require action of me in any way. So unlike many people battling their own minds and hearts who are forced to motion because of the responsibility of employment or taking care of others, I currently have the living situation that allows for complete indulgence of my debilitating mental state.
Each day I wake up and blink a few times and try to think of what I may need to get done that day. Most days I come up with nothing. I have no pressing projects, nobody calling to ask something of me, no job to go to or errands to run. Sure, my room is dirty and my kitchen is empty, but that only pertains to me and if I don’t give a shit it doesn’t matter. I usually lay there and spend a few minutes trying to remember the creative things I used to be so energetic about- I might even touch my guitar that usually lies in bed with me, a creepy filler for a human and a pressureful reminder of what I know I was meant to do-but usually I cannot think anything through clearly. My head is foggy. I have no ideas. Or if I do, they’re behind a wall thick enough I can’t concretely capture them. The only thing that still functions vividly is my daydreaming, and daydreaming brings beauty and momentary transformation, so I curl up again under the covers and wait for dull peaceful sleep.
I was born to create. I have no question about that. I have spent most of my short years battling to gain the tools I’d need to create, tell stories, impact and influence. I can look back at my little life and see the benefits my battling has brought: moving to a city I’d always wanted to, graduating college without debt, working on theater and film sets in various capacity, impressive internships in all of the areas I had interest in, a few random songs and a few random essays and a few random outfits as proof of my creativity. Where did I get the drive for all that? I can’t remember.
No I’m not kidding, I truly can’t remember. I can’t harness the energy or interest that I used to use to fight. I feel passive, helpless, paralyzed. Once in a while I can remember, and I get excited and wild. But then my eager attitude is a separate entity from my physical body. Sometimes my mind screams at my shell. ”wake up and move! Think of all the amazing things you did, think of all you can! blah blah blah Ben Carson blah blah blah Taylor Swift blah blah blah Wes Anderson!” but those screams may as well be in a sound-proof room in a different country from my sleeping body shell, because the shell does not respond.
I wake up and look around and think, “what do I need to get out of bed for?” and I wait a beat. And then I answer myself, “no reason.” and uncontroversial uncomplicated rest can surround me again.