I don’t know exactly what this piece is about. Something about having illnesses, living with illnesses, loving people with illnesses. Something like that.
It’s like you’re climbing up a gravel-covered mountain. You may make some progress, but one false move and you slide back down. You can see the highest place you can climb, but you can’t seem to climb any higher.
It’s like you’ve watched all the interesting things on Netflix, and now there’s really nothing much to do but stew in your own misery—and you know that’s not really a good idea, but what else is there?
It’s like you can ask for help, sure, but no one is available all the time, and it’s not even like you really need help; you just need out. But there’s no out from your own body and mind.
It’s like you know the right things to do, and you can do a few of them, maybe, but what you gain in mental health you lose in physical health. Or vice versa.
It’s like you’re always underwater, and how are you supposed to do anything when you can’t even breathe?
It’s like that one time you did maybe get past that one stupid spot on gravel mountain, but then something came out of left field and knocked you back to the ground. You tried, but why bother?
It’s like it’s easier just to stay quiet, stay small, because any risk will attract criticism and while you have important things to say it’s so much safer for your own mental wellbeing not to hear that criticism. Even if some of it is right, you can’t piece out what’s right from the noise and it all just hurts.
I mean. It’s like everything hurts all the time.
It’s like life gets so small you can’t remember the last time you left the house or took a shower or even talked to someone. It’s all you can do to even care about that.
It’s like you let a lot go, and then one day you can’t anymore, but it’s too late; you’ve crafted a life tiptoeing around illness and hurt and to stop tiptoeing will only cause more illness and hurt anyway.
It’s like it’s so hard, you forgot how to eat food.
It’s like it’s so fucking hard, you don’t even have the words to explain it. You just sort of keep going and what the hell? How is it getting harder when it seemed so hard to start with?
It’s like you try and you try and you put all your effort into this time will be different, but it’s really not. It just doesn’t change; it’s the same damn merry-go-round.
It’s like you’re a hopeful person by nature, and when you see your own hope wearing thin, it’s terrifying. Not only are you losing hope, you’re losing your identity.
It’s like walking around the pet store is your whole day’s energy.
It’s like giving up is harder than putting your head down and continuing to work, but maybe giving up is what is needed.
It’s like there are no answers, only questions and pain and opinions from strangers in the cheap seats.
It’s pretty shitty, some days.