When the sun won’t shine
… what a bad day looks like
That moment when you know you’re suppose to be a ball of sunshine and everything around should be rosy. Because of how things are going in your life as of recent, everything should be shitting rainbows and unicorns. Except all you feel inside is despair, extremely lost and the only thing sitting with you in the darkness is a wound-up ball of anxiety.
Everything is not right in the world.
I have zero reason to believe this statement except for the little demon in the corner screaming at me that a boulder is coming. It’ll come and roll you flat because you’re way too high up in this world right now.
The demon is also screaming at how I’m not pretty enough. My hair should be curlier. My body should be slimmer. Like way slimmer. I’m a piece of fat fuck right now. I’m useless at my job and as a 27 year old, I should know what I’m doing with my life. I have no idea where to go from here and am instead stuck in this job that I clearly no longer enjoy. Except I should man up and be proactive to make this job enjoyable again. I’m not allowed to complain if I’m not trying my darn hardest. Then again all I know how to do is to be a burden to my family financially since the only way I feel better is to spend tons of money on things I don’t need. And food. Which makes sense why I’m a fat fuck.
My mind should be way clearer, especially with all the medication, therapy and happiness in my life right now. This demon should not exist to begin with, but there he is, all happy, prancing and screaming in the corner.
When my friends talk to me, I’m only half listening. Not because I don’t care or they’re boring, but because my mind has the capacity of a pea. Everything else is stuffed with the words of this demon and if it isn’t, it is filled with walls that are trying to shut his words out. Basically my attention span becomes that of a squirrel and I have the emotional capacity of a rock. The small shred of humanity left in me is fighting to be present, so I muster up sympathetic “I know”s in hopes of seeming empathetic. I say words that sound like advice, but on hindsight becomes very apparent I was not really listening. I gather whatever happiness I have to move my muscles into a smile.
I have become that friend.
My body has learned to function on autopilot, so I can just get myself to work (barely), eat, bathe and sleep. Somehow I love my little munchkins enough to still feed them because if they disappear, the light really will die in my heart. To everyone else, I’m getting by but no one sees that taking care of myself is the equivalent to pulling teeth. The piles of laundry, the sink of stinky dishes that comprises of only cups and utensils, and the weeks-old poop stains that are setting in (I have an anxious blind cat that is still learning to find the litter box). Self-care has faded into empty bullet journals, non-existent daily gratitude post-its, disdain for exercise, and instead looks like me drowning in Netflix binge sessions and alcohol. My love for makeup has turned into something I only think about, but never have the energy to execute. My work outfits has turned into a daily struggle of what is the comfiest combination possible while avoiding leggings and hoodies.
So my options are to sit here and pray the demon will leave soon, as he has so many times before. Or as much as I hate it, to add on more medication to force him away while embracing the cavalry of side effects. Or take another god damn medical leave from work because I’m just that weak and incapable of functioning otherwise. At least there are options so the sun will eventually shine. I’m done being melodramatic now.
