Let me set the stage.
The sun is streaming in through open windows. A cool breeze floats lazily in. Music plays in the background. A little girl plays on the floor.
I sit up on my comfortable couch, comfortable, with my husband laying next to me. We discuss the plan for the day. Some cleaning needs to be done, some bills need to be paid, and we need to figure out what we are doing for our anniversary weekend. Hubby gets up to make lunch. I stay laying on the couch.
I should feel ambivalent, or maybe even good. The breeze feels nice, the music is upbeat…. No, I feel like the world is going to end. I know it isn’t. For the life of me, though, nothing seems worth pushing through this feeling.
I want to curl up in a burrito of sadness and stare absentmindedly at reruns of a crime drama on tv. It may not be the most fulfilling of days, but it would mean that my anxiety wouldn’t increase.
Some days, it feels like that is the best I can hope for; that I won’t make myself feel worse.
I will make it to the end of the day, and I’m sure I will have had a few good moments by then and those moments will make being awake worth it, but if I am 100% honest, I want to be out of my own head right now.