I never want to write on the bad days, for a whole host of reasons. I don't want to come across as melodramatically seeking attention or, conversely, as if I'm getting really unwell again. I don't want other people to read my words and conclude that recovery is impossible or as if it's not worth fighting for. I'm paranoid about people reading too much into anything I put out there; years in hospital will do that to you. My fingers are itchy but idle and my legs are restless but weighted. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to write. But I feel like writing is the right thing to do.
I'm ok and recovery is grand. Except when it isn't. And today, it isn't.
Today I hurt. The physical pain of mental illness is really strange. It takes me off guard. I ache absolutely everywhere and I fell down the stairs earlier because my legs won't cooperate today any more than my brain will. I suppose it's a bit like how when you have a serious physical illness, it can bring on, for example, depression. I don't know. I just can't be bothered to do anything. Writing this so far has taken hours, but I need to feel like I've done something today, even if it's writing something poor. I can barely be bothered to put the kettle on and I spent half an hour sitting on my bed, staring into space, before I could gather the motivation to even get dressed. This is what recovery is like. It's not about smiley faces and delicious food and inspirational words and art and beauty. It's about grim determination. With more emphasis on the 'grim' bit on some days. Like today.
Some days I feel like I'm getting somewhere. Some days I feel like a monstrosity of both inner and outer ugliness. Today, I feel so fat and ugly. And like a terrible person for feeling that me being fat is such a bad thing. Ugly, ugly,ugly. I am. The whole thing is.