Today is just one of those days. One of those days where getting out of bed feels like an overwhelming effort. One of those days where my thoughts are lagging, all excitement gone. One of those days where it feels like I’m always going to be like this.
It isn’t an unsafe day. In fact, the days when I am at the highest risk of serious self-harm or suicidal ideation are days when I’m manic for longer than a few hours, or when my mood is swinging rapidly. Today is just a shit day with nothing to show for. If I can’t find the energy to drag my sorry butt out of bed, I certainly don’t have the energy to do much else, including hurt myself.
Contrary to common belief, self-harm takes a lot of bravery. It hurts and despite how crap I might be feeling, it does scare me. You go too far. You begin to worry about the pain. Doubts kick in. Everything crumbles. I’m not brave today. I’m weak and I’m vulnerable.
On days like this, all I want to do is be asleep. It’s the easiest thing. When I’m asleep, I’m safe. I’m out of it, in a little dream world where things can be scary, but not in the way that I know with my mental illness. I can’t remember ever having a dream in which I self-harmed or killed myself.
Today, my head hurts. It’s pounding. Everything is too loud. I think about how loud it is, and I start spacing out. Am I a real person? Is anyone else real? Was my brain always going to be like this, or did something happen? I am slipping.
Today, my stomach is sinking. I have no hope for the future. I can’t even see tomorrow ahead of me. It’s just a black hole. I have nothing in the future. I am stuck in the present, with these thoughts lagging around me. It makes it hard to breathe.
Today, everything is grating on my nerves. A harsh word, an accident, and everything is fizzing. I have this dull anger which is directed at nobody apart from myself. It feels like I’m trying to scream, but I can’t, so it just comes out as a whisper.
These days don’t last forever. For all I know, I could feel better in a few hours. The sinking feeling is temporary, despite how permanent it feels in the moment. I am not drowning. I can breathe and I can live, despite what my brain is telling me.
Writing these feelings doesn’t make me feel significantly happier but breaking out from the nothingness of this cage my brain has made does evoke a small sense of release. This might be a bad day, but I am not a bad person and I will continue to fight as hard as I can to stop my illness from doing bad things to me.