On getting out of bed.
Here is a
painfully true cliché – healing takes time.
A month ago
on my birthday to-do list was just one thing: survive the ‘your’re a failure’
related thoughts storm and do not kill yourself.
I used to
perceive staying in bed and doing nothing as laziness right until my “Grey’s
Anatomy” marathon period. Being inside one’s self esteem, will to live and
faith deprived mind is a struggle. And the worst part is: to take a step
outside you have to grow a huge set of balls to do that.
Couple of
weeks ago I’ve found a kind of self help guide of getting out of depression and
I made a gigantic at that time decision to print it out.
I had two
options: go to the library to do that or ask my housemate if I can use her
printer. The first one included no human interaction, but a full audience of
students that could possibly take a peak and actually leaving the house. The
second one was more terrifying: speaking to a person.
And I have.
And even stayed in the living room while my the ink was covering all those 10 wise
pages.
I’m better
now.
I’m strong
enough to shower regularly and I don’t consider one of not beauty related ways
to use a razor, I don’t even cry there.
I wonder if
my ex-boyfriend’s cancer is real or imaginary less often.
I decided
to focus on screenwriting for the rest of my degree and finish it.
I even made
a pleasant small talk with my course mate on my way home.
Progress,
right?
In a near
future I may even be able to participate in a social event and have a decent
one night stand. (The last time I attempted that I’ve blackout half way through
the night and after waking up next to one of the bartenders and assuming we had
sex I stayed there and cuddled for 10 hours.)
The funny
thing is – I’ve never read all of those 10 pages, but the decision to take
action was the breakthrough. A decision that I want to get better.
The good,
productive ‘action days’ will probably have some ‘pizza eating zombie days’ in
between. But it’s ok. Healing takes time.
shot by
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