I can’t concentrate on books.
Cooking feels like a chore.
My ceiling is the most interesting thing in my apartment, apparently.
Dishes? Sure, as soon as the ceiling gets done being interesting.
Such is life with depression. Things I love don’t hold the magic that they normally do. As soon as my brain starts working I fall apart in the “what-ifs” and the seemingly endless to-do list. Just being awake seems like an achievement.
It is a terrible feeling.
It is so hard to explain to somebody who can’t feel what I am feeling, or doesn’t understand that it feels just as real as having a limb removed or having cancer.
So, I am going to listen to happy music, stare at this book until it catches my imagination, and hope that the ceiling stops being interesting long enough to do dishes. All I can do is keep trying. Even if doesn’t look like much from the outside, it is taking tremendous effort.
And hey! If this is you today, YAY! You’re breathing! Keep that shit up 😉