I open my eyes and find myself surrounded by darkness. It's not for lack of sunlight. No, I can see that. It's streaming in through my bedroom window with blinding intensity. It doesn't feel warm, but I don't expect it to; it's winter. The sun is plastic. Emotionless. Bearing no welcome. Its rays are crisp, almost excruciating, the way they reflect off the coating of snow on the ground. Like knives.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, searching for a reason to get out of bed. Sure, there are things to do. There are always things to do, but nothing immediate. So, I lie there. Eventually, I turn to my phone. Facebook, as usual, brings nothing but depressing news. Other social outlets are a discredit to their names as the online user bar displays only a handful of usernames, and none of them are ones I recognize. Across all platforms, I have no messages. I put the phone back on the nightstand and resume staring up at the ceiling.
Isolation.
Whether it's internal, external, or some combination of both, it's equally crippling. Downstairs, my normally flourishing potted foliage is withering. Maybe it feels the same way I do.
Eventually, after an hour and a half of nothing, I haul myself out of bed.
Maybe I'll take a bath, I think to myself for the third time this week. I won't. I never do.
I turn on the water and let it run for a minute to warm up. Just a shower today.
The running water is hot by now, I know it, but I don't feel any warmer. Still, it's enough to get my brain moving onto new subjects — sort of.
I look down at my bare arms, dappled with drops of water. The random specks act like tiny magnifying glasses, bringing portions of my past into view. Marks left by winters past. A mark left by a loving artist's hand. Refracting domes over unblemished skin, reminding me of the times in-between. I sigh and turn my arms over, dumping the droplets to the floor. I swore a long time ago that I'd stop leaving marks on myself, and to a point, that's been true. I've stopped leaving marks on the outside. On the inside, where others can't see and take the knife away, it's been a season-long annual process of systematic flaying, sometimes out of malice, other times, out of boredom.
It's not always like this, part of my brain reminds the rest of me. In the recesses of my mind, a song starts playing, like a helpful friend blowing the dust off of an old record before setting it to spin.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...
You've survived this before, and I know you can do it again.
You make me happy when skies are gray...
The dominant part of my mind pushes the thoughts away. Of course I can do it again. It's not as if I have a choice. All of me knows full well how many mornings I've come to consciousness after a long night of tossing, turning, and confusing dreams, only to feel that darkness looming there, waiting to follow me around all day. How many mornings have I gone through lists of people, pets, and potential strangers whose lives would be altered by my absence?
Too many.
Besides, you know there would be blame for leaving those closest to you to suffer. It's as if my thoughts are sneering at me as they bring guilt into the debate. They know you've been through the same. They know you've probably thought about this. Go through with it anyway, and they'll never forgive you. It's guilt that my mind knows I have the hardest time getting past. It doesn't make me feel any better, but it's certainly an effective bargaining point.
Look at your art, the other part of my mind urges, coming to the forefront again. Growth. Love. Perseverance. You got that because you know that you can come out of this, and you'll be stronger than before.
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you...
You're surrounded by love. Family, friends, and even those people you barely know. Most importantly, you know that, when the sun is warm and the trees are green, there's love in here for yourself. You just have to make it through another winter.
And as hard as it is to acknowledge those things sometimes, I know it's true. I've done this before, and I can do it again. Some days are easy enough, while others leave me crippled. Someone I love dearly once told me that it's not a matter of living every day to someone else's best. It's about doing the most you can on that day. Some days that means doing all the chores and all the work and still having the energy to make a full dinner for two. Other days, maybe it's just getting out of bed and remembering to eat. Two very different to-do lists, but still two "bests."
Eventually, I get out of the shower. I don't feel better, but I know there won't be anymore marks left on my body today and that I'll be able to make it until tomorrow. That's all it is, just a series of tomorrows until the sun comes back, the snow melts, and spring starts everything fresh again. It won't be winter forever. I just need to keep living.
Please don't take my sunshine away.
I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, searching for a reason to get out of bed. Sure, there are things to do. There are always things to do, but nothing immediate. So, I lie there. Eventually, I turn to my phone. Facebook, as usual, brings nothing but depressing news. Other social outlets are a discredit to their names as the online user bar displays only a handful of usernames, and none of them are ones I recognize. Across all platforms, I have no messages. I put the phone back on the nightstand and resume staring up at the ceiling.
Isolation.
Whether it's internal, external, or some combination of both, it's equally crippling. Downstairs, my normally flourishing potted foliage is withering. Maybe it feels the same way I do.
Eventually, after an hour and a half of nothing, I haul myself out of bed.
Maybe I'll take a bath, I think to myself for the third time this week. I won't. I never do.
I turn on the water and let it run for a minute to warm up. Just a shower today.
The running water is hot by now, I know it, but I don't feel any warmer. Still, it's enough to get my brain moving onto new subjects — sort of.
I look down at my bare arms, dappled with drops of water. The random specks act like tiny magnifying glasses, bringing portions of my past into view. Marks left by winters past. A mark left by a loving artist's hand. Refracting domes over unblemished skin, reminding me of the times in-between. I sigh and turn my arms over, dumping the droplets to the floor. I swore a long time ago that I'd stop leaving marks on myself, and to a point, that's been true. I've stopped leaving marks on the outside. On the inside, where others can't see and take the knife away, it's been a season-long annual process of systematic flaying, sometimes out of malice, other times, out of boredom.
It's not always like this, part of my brain reminds the rest of me. In the recesses of my mind, a song starts playing, like a helpful friend blowing the dust off of an old record before setting it to spin.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...
You've survived this before, and I know you can do it again.
You make me happy when skies are gray...
The dominant part of my mind pushes the thoughts away. Of course I can do it again. It's not as if I have a choice. All of me knows full well how many mornings I've come to consciousness after a long night of tossing, turning, and confusing dreams, only to feel that darkness looming there, waiting to follow me around all day. How many mornings have I gone through lists of people, pets, and potential strangers whose lives would be altered by my absence?
Too many.
Besides, you know there would be blame for leaving those closest to you to suffer. It's as if my thoughts are sneering at me as they bring guilt into the debate. They know you've been through the same. They know you've probably thought about this. Go through with it anyway, and they'll never forgive you. It's guilt that my mind knows I have the hardest time getting past. It doesn't make me feel any better, but it's certainly an effective bargaining point.
Look at your art, the other part of my mind urges, coming to the forefront again. Growth. Love. Perseverance. You got that because you know that you can come out of this, and you'll be stronger than before.
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you...
You're surrounded by love. Family, friends, and even those people you barely know. Most importantly, you know that, when the sun is warm and the trees are green, there's love in here for yourself. You just have to make it through another winter.
And as hard as it is to acknowledge those things sometimes, I know it's true. I've done this before, and I can do it again. Some days are easy enough, while others leave me crippled. Someone I love dearly once told me that it's not a matter of living every day to someone else's best. It's about doing the most you can on that day. Some days that means doing all the chores and all the work and still having the energy to make a full dinner for two. Other days, maybe it's just getting out of bed and remembering to eat. Two very different to-do lists, but still two "bests."
Eventually, I get out of the shower. I don't feel better, but I know there won't be anymore marks left on my body today and that I'll be able to make it until tomorrow. That's all it is, just a series of tomorrows until the sun comes back, the snow melts, and spring starts everything fresh again. It won't be winter forever. I just need to keep living.
Please don't take my sunshine away.