I’m not doing so hot. I wish things were better, but I’m at a point now where progress is at a crawl, and some weeks feel like I’m taking more steps backward than I’ve taken forward in recent months. I’m still trying. I’m still working.
I’m finding out that self care is a lot less fun than social media would have you believe. People like to pretend that it’s bath bombs and comfy sweaters. I prefer showers and it’s too damn hot for sweaters. Self care is cleaning your home this weekend. And next weekend. And the weekend after that. And the following weekend. Apparently, adulthood is one never-ending span of not being able to keep a fucking studio clean! No shit.
I’ve been having a hard time sleeping, and a hard time eating, and a hard time remembering to take my meds on time (because I’m not eating regular meals). I’m trying my damnedest to still spend time with people I like, because I know that if I start to backslide then I start to withdraw from my friends and family and that blows because then I’m depressed and semi-medicated and alone. I’m trying to make myself eat. I think I might set an alarm tonight to make sure I go to bed at a reasonable hour.
I flossed today. I brushed my teeth. I ate breakfast. It’s three fifteen and I haven’t had lunch. (pill break….) Venlafaxine tastes like shit, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you.
I’m doing my laundry. I hate laundry almost as much as I hate doing dishes, so any time I can accomplish that particular chore is a reason to celebrate. I just have to remember to hang the clothes up when they’re dry.
Some days I am well, and I don’t need to take inventory of what percentage of Basic Daily Hygiene I’ve accomplished. I’m not having a lot of those days recently. I’m having to take inventory of what’s slipping, and grab those pieces even tighter. Some days you just have to hold on desperately to whatever you have and hope you make it through the other side of this. ❀