Yesterday I felt ready to move on from the month of May. There are still 5 days left, but at the time I’m up and moving around in the kitchen, I have to keep the momentum going. I clean, sweep, cook, now it’s time to change the calendar. I take it off the wall and flip the page to June. There it reads something beautiful about a woman, a lovely picture to compliment a quote that I assume is supposed to be inspirational.

Paused, I know I don’t deserve this picture, or this quote, in this moment. The message isn’t meant for this version of myself, buzzed and self loathing. Slowly, I flip the page back down covering the month of June as it should be. I haven’t made it through May yet, I don’t get to skip ahead just because I feel so done. The buzzing in my brain hurts, I promised I would stop drinking. Clearly that didn’t work out.

Hopefully, later this week I won’t be drunk or feel depressed. I will have another opportunity to flip from May to June and re-read the page I get to look at for the next thirty days. In this moment, I hope I feel peace or inspiration. Really I want to feel anything other than what I feel now.

Being depressed is what I would imagine death might feel like. Only, without fear. When I feel depressed my chest is tight, I feel sad but numb at the same time. I just can’t care or feel, and I am so sorry to all the people I hurt or push away in these moments. Please know I too am pushing myself away. I can’t allow you to see me in this place, because when you ask me what’s wrong I can’t answer. When you try to hold a conversation I can barely keep up, you see I am exhausted. From what? I’m not sure. I guess from this illness that pulls me into an arena where I am not myself. My life is a constant game of bouncing back and forth between two people, one that is love and one that is not.

I promise, I don’t know this person. This person is not me, at least not authentically. My brain isn’t working right, don’t you understand? But somehow in the depths of darkness I feel home. Probably because I’ve been here before. The comfort of this knowing keeps me on my knees, unwilling to try and stand up. I can’t stand up. I can’t get better. See, that’s what my brain says when I’m depressed. And you know, sometimes I believe it.

But, I will tell you there will always come a time when I know this voice is wrong. I will always get back up. Today, I am here. I will be happy again. I will be sad again. I will be depressed again. But, this can’t be my forever. Right? Just tell me that it gets better.