Hanging Out

Depression is a bitch. 

I didn’t even know it was a bad day when I got up.

I take that back. I had the feeling. I didn’t know it was going to be this bad of a day.

That’s better.

I’m reminded of a post I wrote a long time ago.

It feels like winter; I lie alone in our bed, comforters bunched up at my front and back. I can’t relax in an open bed. I need the reassurance that I won’t fall, that I’m really here, that I am loved and special. And so I turn the surface of the mattress into a nest where I am surrounded by walls of fabric and stuffing. This is enough to protect me from the dangers of the outside world.

It’s still true. It is safer this way. An actual, physical barrier, keeping the bad guys away. It’s not a substantial wall, but it’s real.

It’s scary to open the door, to let myself out onto the floor. Even just to go to the bathroom, to take all the jewelry out of my nose and wad up a tissue to blow into. It’s scary out there.

It’s safe in here. I have three screens in here with me, safe within the walls; iPhone, Kindle, and Toshiba, in order of increasing size. I worked on some of my ghostwriting because I should have been done two days ago.

I haven’t finished.

I read some. I finished a book I started last week. I started another. 

I checked Facebook.

I played musical pillows.

I cried.

It felt like Mission:Impossible to go all the way to the dining room for Toshiba. Somehow I survived.

Somehow I always survive.

But it’s easier when I can just hang out in my nest in my bed.