There are days that it’s okay. Days that I’m okay, that I can concentrate, that I feel alive and present in both mind and body. Days that I don’t curse the universe for letting me open my eyes. It’s those days that I feel positive and hopeful and full of maybe. Full of maybe now it will start to get better, and maybe I won’t get sick again and maybe this is the first day of a new life.
And then there are other days. Days that I have to drag myself through, feeling only half there, seeing the world through a mist of whispering voices and mind-numbing exhaustion. Days that I’m crushed by self-hatred and hopeless loneliness. Days that I look in the mirror and just want to stick a knife in what I see. Days that I bitch at and argue with everyone who means something to me, for no good reason.
Now, every good day has a bitter edge. Every “first good day in a long time” has less maybe and more we’ll see how long it lasts this time. Every time I have a good day, I tell myself that I won’t give into it again, that I won’t lose again, that I will make it all better from now on… And every time I fail it sounds more and more like a lie.
I want to believe I can beat this, that I can beat my own diseased and faulty nature and grow into something better, something cured and whole and worthwhile… But I have less faith every time a good day is once again “the first in a long time”.