Don’t touch the floor
As kids, most of us played that silly game at some point; we’d hop around the furniture in the house, pretending the floor was hot lava. (Even as a kid, I wondered why it had to be said that the lava was hot; of course it was hot.)
As a slightly more mature adult, I don’t find myself playing this game by choice. Instead, this game plays me; I’m trapped on my bed or couch because it feels impossible to face the day.
I think people sometimes don’t understand just how paralyzing depression and anxiety can be. Hell, even I don’t understand it sometimes after they…let’s say happen, for lack of a better term. But these issues can be powerful de-motivators, draining you until you can’t do anything at all. Sometimes, you can’t even find the motivation to move.
Maybe the floor isn’t hot lava when you’re facing these issues. Maybe it’s a shark infested ocean, and my bed is a life raft, the ship having sunk just because. Sharks, which this day might be named Responsibility, Work, Family, and Social Obligation circle the raft, and if I don’t move, it’ll stay afloat, and I won’t have to face the sharks, which normally don’t seem so big (and are sometimes even preferable), but right now are giant, terrifying Great Whites straight out of Jaws.
But if I stay in bed, they can’t get me. Even though deep down, I know I’ll have to dive in and face them at some point.
I guess I just have to remember that the sharks aren’t real; the concepts I name them after are real, but though I’m sometimes irrationally afraid of them, they’ll never devour me.
And you’ll be okay, too.