I don't want to do anything but I did some small chores around the house and that seems like enough. I opened up the pages of my book but I can't seem to care about putting them together. I have already broken the promise to myself that I would have it done by the beginning of the year.
It's only February but it feels later. Like it's too late.
I've been having a hard time lately but it doesn't really matter. I can't seem to let myself feel anything but annoyance at my feelings. And sadness. My depression is a hurricane.
I am standing on a beach of white sand when the winds come. They don't start as a breeze, they rage. There is no control over it. The trees bend and the water roars sending huge waves tumbling into one another. It sounds like screaming. It feels like screaming.
When the intensity refuses to lessen I imagine being a block away from the storm. I could still hear it ringing loud in my ears. I could not get away from it. I still can't
The hurricane is my depression. The winds will die down, they have to because I've functioned without them before. But they seem so consuming that it doesn't seem possible. I feel wiped out, broken like the trees that gave up bending and finally broke. I feel like screaming into the storm but I don't want to do anything.