And then I quietly fell apart

I am writing this instead of lying in bed and crying. That was not working for me. Somehow I made the choice to come back to the living room and get back on the computer.

Back on the computer and back on the blog.

It’s been at least six months.

I kept seeing notifications from the site popping up in my inbox. And I would feel conflicted and uncomfortable. Now I think it’s a good thing, because I didn’t completely forget.

I have slid down from wherever I was six months ago. It’s not good.

I am fighting wars with myself. Battles between shame and avoidance. Introspective campaigns of guilt and fear. There is so much of it and it has dragged me down to dark places. I have woken up tired too many days. I have resented living my life because it demands that I cope with myself… something I can’t seem to manage.

And yet, while sinking, one hand has found a grip on a lifeline. This blog. Even these words. A voice. My voice.

I am rusty, I barely remember how to use the site. Still I want to. There are other outlets I could reach for but this is the one that I think is the most constructive. I am going to review my old posts and see if I can teach myself anything.

I am hoping this is the first of a resurgence in posts. If I can brave it, I may expand on what exactly is going on.

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Rise. Shine. Wait.

Writing this early in the morning. By my standards, that is. Dodging the shame like I took the red pill last night. Whoosh, whoosh, I bend over backwards and it flies by… almost as deadly as bullets.

I am playing the waiting game. Possibly one of the worst games, but that’s beside the point. I may not have much in the way of a routine at this juncture of my life, but the morning part of what I do have goes something like this: I get up, go to the washroom, get dressed and check the time. If it’s too early then I kill time, usually just browsing or checking the weather or something. If it’s the right time then I call my mom.

My mom is my closest friend. We sync up extremely well in terms of temperament and sense of humour. We are mutually supportive of our respective mental illnesses. She’s there for me, I’m there for her. I talk to her almost every day in the morning and we often do things together, including meeting at Tim Hortons (the coffee place… in case that detail is lost) for breakfast. It’s easy for us to do this, as she lives only four blocks down the street from me.

But it’s a little early to call just yet. So I have to wait, which I am not always good at. Sometimes when I have to wait it seems like nothing interests me anymore but getting to the thing I’m waiting for.

For today’s circumstances, one would think it would be the opposite. That I wouldn’t mind waiting, all things considered. “All things” in this case are the chores I have committed to starting, along with my mom’s help. I am planning to start a purge of sorts, getting rid of almost everything that I haven’t looked at/used over the past year. To give an idea what this means: it’s clothes I haven’t worn or don’t fit, craft supplies I haven’t used, decorations I didn’t take out, movies I’ll never watch etc., etc… oh and boxes. Far too many boxes.

Now I said “start” this purge. I by no means expect to get it all done in one day and I don’t expect I could do it alone. It’s that motivational momentum. I don’t have much of it and it very quickly fizzles out. Even someone just being there with a suggestion as to what comes next is vitally important. So if my mom doesn’t feel up to helping today, it probably won’t begin today. I’ll have to wait, call her and find out.

For the time being I continue to dodge the shame and guilt projectiles that are launched when I consider that it’s my fault I need to do this purge in the first place. It seems I’m managing to dodge pretty well, mostly by telling myself it’s more important to do something about the mess than to assign blame.

That works? Yes, sometimes I luck out and that simple bit of self-talk actually works. Well, works enough to make me feel better, as far as spurring any constructive action that remains to be seen.