Some days it’s a miracle that I even move. It’s a miracle that I continue to exist. And I don’t know the source of that will power, but those days it appears in a quantity just great enough to spark brief spurts of energy. Acute motivation. Long enough to get a few things done. And then the reserves are depleted, and I collapse. Some days that energy is on an extended release. A high functioning depressive state with a prolonged level of low-to-medium energy. Just enough to meet the bare minimum throughout the day. And some days this shell is how I “live”.
Some days I move so fast that I feel more than alive. Every thing is everything, and there is nothing that I don’t want to do, with the exception of sleep because that means I can’t do everything that I haven’t done. And all the words that flow through me, and out, can’t be said fast enough because there are so many of them. Segments of phrases separate and are stuck on repeat like a hyperactive hamster on a well-lubricated wheel. None of it has substance, but is there a time when I don’t smile like it is True?
Some days strings of thoughts and emotions are entangled in a ball of multi-colored, multi-textured yarn. A random piece seems to transition into a different random piece, yet somehow the two are still one. Teasing them out is a horrible mess. I try to untangle the knots and lay each in from of me, flat and straight, so I can see it. Lists and categories. Then, maybe it will all make sense. Some days I succeed. Some days the ball is too complicated—the heap is paralyzing. A blanket of pills and alcohol covers the wreckage, and I wrap my Self up tight in survival mode.
Some days my skin crawls, and my blood pumps too fast. Comfort is an impossibility. I cannot sit. I cannot stand. Sounds are too loud. Lights are too bright. Weight is too heavy. And I cannot run or scream or bite or throw or cut or bang or howl because those actions are unacceptable as the norm for someone who is fit to mingle with the members of free world. Cannot play well with others. And some days the frustration of being frustrated, and anxious about being sad, and having a shell and knots and hamsters on wheels enrages me; and I am on fire in a fit of sadness.
Some days it’s a miracle that I even move.
It’s a miracle that I continue to exist.