I don’t think people get what it feels like to wake up and already hate yourself. To have dried mascara crusted to your eyes because you didn’t have the energy to wash your face last night and you cried yourself to sleep because that’s the only thing that seems to work. To already be exhausted because the dreams are like living reality. A comment burnt into your brain from the night before, that person may not realise the hurt but in reality it left a scar.
One. Two. Three.
Time to get up.
You’ve got this.
Body aching from the gym yesterday because that seems to be the only form of release. A 10k run that you thought hit the spot but it turns out your problems run faster than you. There is no escaping it. Mostly because there’s nothing to run from, because in that case you would be running from yourself. Understanding that you can’t run because the thoughts live with you, up in your brain.
One. Two. Three.
Shower, teeth, breakfast.
You’ve got this.
The water dripping from head to toe, unable to make out what are tears. It’s okay though, the shower is safe, no one can see or hear. You take a moment to sit there in the shower, think about the day ahead. That feeling of dread and terror, your body ready to fight for something that isn’t even there. But that’s okay, it better to be prepared than not. The idea of breakfast doesn’t sit well either. Stomach knotted to an unbearable pain and feeling sick to a point where it’s better to skip it all together.
One. Two. Three.
Dress. Gym. Work.
You’ve got this.
You look in the mirror. Baggy joggers and jumpers because that’s all your bare to see yourself in right now. Your workout doesn’t go to plan, you feel even more anger towards yourself. It’s only a 10kg you tell yourself whilst looking across to someone else lifting triple. But that person had probably had breakfast – and dinner the night before. How do you expect a body to function fuel? You decide to take a rest, get that work done you’ve been putting of for weeks because the motivation never existed.
One. Two. Three.
Lunch. Read. Tidy.
You’ve got this.
Forcefully, you ate a wrap. Stomach pain still bending you into a ball. You pick up your book, some time for you. But you can’t make out the story because your own thoughts are louder than the ones you reading. Instead you go up to your room to clean your room. Clothes covering the floor you can’t even see it. Bottles of water stacked up by the bed. Washing basket full. But you push through and it’s all sorted.
One. Two. Three.
Hoover. Dinner. Skincare.
You’ve got this.
You go to grab the hoover to finish of the room you have just tidied. But that knotted pain in your stomach is to bad. You see your bed unmade so you crawled in. Peeled of your clothes and there they lie on your bedroom floor and that’s where they will stay for the next few days. Pillows already wet from tears as you look at the sun light streaming through the window. And there you lay for the rest of the evening. Silent with your thoughts.
One. Two. Three.
We will try again tomorrow. You’ve got this.
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