Thursday morning, I haven’t seen 6:30am in a long time. I have stopped crying but my head is pounding. I feel calmer but that sort of calmness that can be deadly but I am unbothered, sort of numb but not quite.
I hesitantly wear my dark blackish-grey jeans I haven’t worn in months, I am terrified of jeans. I button them up they feel bigger, they are drooping and I refuse to wear to wear a belt I want to SEE the creases were my flesh once occupied but no longer there. The serial weight fluctuator that I am wants to feel it for it will not last long.
I grab my textbooks… I refuse to go digital, books should be tangible and felt not stored in some device. My bag is heavy and I know my shoulders will pay for this later. Food doesn’t interest me… not on this particular morning at least. On an empty stomach feeling so glorious and empty I head out the door and it feels like am been set free (well only momentarily) from this house of horrors, when the day ends I will be back here again to the unforgiving tedium. The rage. The hurt and and and.
No crying tonight lest my head explodes, no sad songs or tears on my pillow. The lorazepam is still unopened, it makes it worse like the downward spiral is drawn-out and much more profound, the drowsiness, forgetfulness leave much to be desired. In a sort of masochist kind of way I’d rather remain present while I go through the motions of depression/anxiety.
My body is spent from all the walking while I was on a birthday present hunt, I almost fainted before jumping into the bus- so classy. My shoulders ache from slouching on a desk studying for hours. Tonight I’ll sleep soundly, that I know for sure. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.