I spend a lot of time in bed. I like the warmth, the way the sun comes in through the window, the close proximity to my laptop. It’s comfort. It’s safety. It’s the only place I ever want to be. That’s a problem.
These days, most of the time I barely have the energy to leave it. Honestly, I barely even have the energy to write this. I’m pausing between almost every sentence. But that’s why I want to write it. Stigmas develop when we hear one story and try to apply it to every new one that comes after it. It’s the textbook definition. The standard. Mental illness isn’t that simple. The basic framework is the same and some habits may overlap, but it manifests differently in every person.
For me, it feels like lying in an air pocket at the bottom of a lake. I can remember all the things that I want, I can picture them sitting up on the surface, but I can’t push through all that water to get through it. I’m not even sure my lungs can hold enough oxygen for me to try. So I lay here. It doesn’t feel good. I don’t feel good about myself for doing it. My actual, rational self in my head all the time, yelling at me to get up, but I don’t. It feels like I can’t. It feels like there’s no point. I know there is, but my depression doesn’t. It’s like there are two halves of my brain and each day is like a roulette as to which one is going to win out. Usually it’s the depression. It makes my world feel so small. Something got under my skin today when I picked up my camera and I got this urge to share that. So here we are.
I don't like looking at these photos. I'm not proud of the messes I curate. I'm sharing them because my goal as a storyteller is to tell every story -- even the ugly ones. My hope is to make people feel less alone. Hopefully this does that.