This is me.
Is it narcissistic to take a picture of myself sitting atop my new mattress in my first and now my only home? Probably. Moments before I was sitting in the exact same position, contemplating the last 24 hours; the last 20 months. At that moment I wanted to have a picture of this. I wanted to remember, no matter how painful my life is right now. And make no mistake, it’s painful in ways I didn’t think was possible to survive.
I’m stuck. Stuck between what was and what will be. Stuck between three houses in two states and three cities. Stuck between loved and unloved. Stuck between “It’s all my fault.” and “What the hell just happened?”.
I wanted to be reminded of what right now looks like.
I want to remember that I am broken. I want to remember the mental and physical exhaustion; the constant sick feeling; the brain fog; the loneliness; the fact that I am not who I was. I want to remember the opinions and bad advice. The distinct lack of choices. The pressure. The toxic positivity. The nervous breakdown. The feeling of not wanting to live. The doctors. The medications. The blood draws. The ER. The urgent cares. Emergency therapy. Living inside my body but not being inside my body. My body slowly beginning to exhibit pain in tangible ways. The things that kept me alive when my brain and body did not want to live.
Why? I’m not sure. It seems important not to forget for reasons that lurk just beyond my reach. I’m told that it’ll all be all right if I just choose to be. As if it’s a choice.
I’m so tired of living in this broken body and mind. And yet, I lack choices there too. I’m here for a reason. I’m still alive for something. There’s only one way off this bus and I’m not willing to go there. So. I sit atop my mattress and plan the next one thing. That’s all I can do these days. Just one thing. One step. One thought. Sometimes not even one thought manages to form and I just push through another day of fog anyway. That’s what I do.