Things have been a little flavorful lately in the sense that life has been tasting a little like hell. It’s during these times that my posts here are especially important to me, and I’ve found rereading some of them has helped me get through things but still not very well. It’s amazing how when the depressions grabs you, you start sinking and are so easily swallowed up, like the Swamp of Sadness in The Neverending Story by Michael Ende.
I remember the first time I read that book. I was twelve, and I stayed up all night to finish it. Beautifully imagined, it’s one of the most creative books I’ve ever read. But just like it’s important to read novels from other countries and cultures to expand your mind, it is also important to nourish yourself with positivity and intuitive beauty.
Some old feelings have returned, triggered by my PTSD. I struggle currently with feelings of worthlessness and toxicity. I feel burdening and heavy, both figuratively and literally. I am back to binging and the inertia one experiences during depressive episodes. I’m very tired and sometimes very angry.
In the recent weeks, my psychiatrist has doubled one of my antipsychotics, and I’ve been guzzling water with ibuprofen tablets for pain and inflammation. But that’s not my focus, not right now.
What I want to focus on in this moment is that I’m finally going to bed and getting up early again, despite the fatigue. This means I am getting out of bed. I might not be doing anything really. I’ve done some things, I guess, although not much. But the point is, I am getting out of bed. I am taking my morning pills. I am making goals for myself, and even though I’m not accomplishing all of them, I am doing something. I am making plans. I am figuring things out. I am still alive. I am not dead and save for those long hours or days or weeks or months when I wish I was, I have moments like these in which I am grateful for all that I have and all that I’m doing.
And it starts with getting out of bed.