On the bad days

On the bad days there are so many reasons not to fight:

It’s so much effort and I am so tired so I convince myself it’s healthier to stay in bed, to keep the curtains drawn to the world. I yawn and I ache and I curl up in a ball telling myself the problem is physical and I just need to sleep. No need to see the world today.

Besides, no one really cares so is there any reason to make that effort? Who am I making that effort for? Why get dressed and inexpertly plaster on make up and fake smile? Why make the speaking noises and the laughing noises? Why type words on a screen to someone who will reply, with obvious reluctance, three days later? Better not to bother. The problem is loneliness. No need to expose myself to that one today.

And I have nothing to give anyway. The world will be the same whether I choose to put on the normal suit or whether I choose to stay wrapped up in stale darkness. If there is no point to my existence, and there is no point to it and no point to me, then why on earth would I inflict myself on the world? The problem is my utter ineptness. Nothing can be done, so why bother?

I’ll only make people feel worse. They will look at my stooped shoulders and down-turned mouth and they will recoil in disgust and boredom. They will wish I had just stayed in bed. The problem is my dullness and misery. Better to keep them to myself.

Plus I look disgusting. I am pale and fat and youth has gone. My clothes are old and don’t fit properly anymore because I am choosing slow suicide by binge eating and a sedentary lifestyle. My face is unattractive, my hair is lank and the roots are peeping through. Stress means patches of nasty scaly skin. I haven’t shaved my legs. It’s a problem of ugliness and everyone would be happier if they didn’t have to look at me.

And there’s the fear. What if I start crying? What if I panic? What if someone looks into my eyes and sees it all, recognises me for what I am? What do I do when someone asks how I am? Do I lie? Do I tell the truth? When I mutter fine and move the subject on, will they spot my dishonesty? The problem is that I can’t trust myself to behave like a normal human being. So I should probably just be crazy alone.

On the better days, some of the reasons lessen, some of them seem not to matter quite as much and, sometimes, on the good days, some of them disappear all together but on the bad days, they gang up and mock and keep me pinned under the covers wondering why it doesn’t just end.

Image result for depressed drawings


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