The most important step to not getting sick is to not touch your face.
“IT’S THAT SIMPLE!” said the poster that has never had to not to touch its face all day, chriiiiiiiiiist.
I’ve turned into that asshole who washes their hands as soon as a sick person walks too close to me, just cos I know I can’t possibly keep my hands away from my mouth.
Gosh. I didn’t mean to stop running. I never made a conscious decision about it. Didn’t even realize time was slipping by until I woke up one day recently–possibly Christmas?–and suddenly realized I’d dropped this big thing that I was really enjoying, simply cos… I dunno. It’s hard to do stuff?
It’s gotten pretty bad lately. I find myself panicking when I have even a moment of silence, because the thoughts kick in. I legit put off showering for about 2 hours last night because doing so meant 20 minutes of no distractions. Like. Whoa. It’s been a looooooong time since it was that bad. Over a year, for sure.
I have my coping mechanisms now. I tell myself stories. “This is partially physical, because you haven’t slept well and you drank a fair amount 2 days in a row. You will feel better in the morning.” But I don’t feel better in the morning. Mornings are about slowly remembering that I have more to do than I can possibly fit into a day, and all of it is time sensitive, and all of it matters, and none of it feels remotely possible.
So I put off going to bed–falling asleep takes time, too, and it’s just too quiet–and then I sleep in late, clinging to the remnants of my dreams.
Even my dreams are stressful, but with the subconscious understanding that it’s not real, having nightmares is way more pleasant than confronting my waking fears.
(Lol, that said “nightmates” and i didn’t notice and now i wish that was a thing people said)
It’s times like these when I wonder idly if I really do need some kind of professional help, but the thought is so far away. Like the sound of children playing across the street. It’s there, but I don’t think about it. It’s not real.
And then I start to feel better, and I let myself hear those thoughts a little louder, and then I’m like, “Ha! I SCOFF at you, thoughts! Look, my dishes are clean and shit! Obviously I don’t need anything other than my own UNSTOPPABLE WILL POWER.”
Lulz. Unstoppable till it stops again, AM I RIGHT.
I also fear the inevitable “it gets worse before it gets better” side effect of both medication and therapy. I mean. Meds are likely to increase suicidal thoughts in the short-term, and I imagine therapy would unearth the shit I’m avoiding. Which just means I’ll still be depressed, AND unable to escape the knowledge of my own damages and failures.
I don’t know if I can handle the Worse bit, guys. I don’t think I’m strong enough for that. I’m not even strong enough to eat anything that requires more than 2 minutes of prep work. Not strong enough to pick my laundry up off the floor. Not strong enough to get out of bed in the mornings before the absolute last second has already passed.
And then there’s the part of me that’s like… what if it doesn’t fix me? What if it solves the depression, but it turns out I’m still a shitty irresponsible person who fails at everything she tries?
The idea of having some sort of disorder is a fluffy cloud of Not My Fault that I can sink into whenever I don’t want to deal with myself. Which is always.
Oh well. Brolicia got me Pokémon for Christmas, so I have A LOT OF HOURS to not think about it. GOTTA CATCH ‘EM ALL, GUYS.
Except I’ll probably stop playing halfway through and hate myself for it later. Can’t even finish a children’s video game.
…. UPLIFTING ENDING TO THIS UPDATE.