Go out and get some fresh air. Exercise. Meet a friend. Go and do something, don’t mope.
It’s good advice. I know hiding in my tiny bedroom under the covers doesn’t help but what they don’t get and what the sane little part of my brain that also feeds me this advice doesn’t get is the inescapable weight of apathy.
Of course I could go out but what would be the point, apathy says, why bother? If you go out, you’ll only be on your own somewhere else, depression adds. If you get some fresh air, it will be a change from the staleness of the same air you’ve been breathing all night and all day, bouncing languidly off the walls and into your lungs, but that will be the only difference. It’s not going to change anything. It’s not going to suddenly make you worth something, it’s not going to give your life purpose and direction, fresh air is not going to conjure friends from nowhere or make people who you wish cared actually care. It’s just going to be different air.
And I know all the research about exercise being good for the nutcases but that doesn’t help at times like this, when the boulders gather in the chest and keep me pinned to the bed, pulling my eyelids down to a sleep that never quite comes.
So I summon up enough energy to push open the window a crack and let some of that magical fresh air in and I hide from it under the covers with my eyes closed daring to hope that sleep might take up home and stay forever.