Some nights are rougher than others. Tonight I feel okay, but also shameful. I know all the warning signs of me being “manic-y”. Hot wings. Spending money. Wanting to dye my hair SO fucking bad. Not sleeping at night. Self sabotage galore. Texting exs and texting girls I shouldn’t be texting. Big plans with no follow through. Phone phone phone. Dance dance dance. Drink drink drink. Repeat.

But today is better. I went outside, a lot. I didn’t spend money. I’m trying to wind down for bed with my sidekick, melatonin.

I am restless because we are in quarantine. Lack of structure fucks with me, and I rebel. My mental health struggles and I have a harder time getting back home in my body. But instead of staying up late watching movies and getting high, I’ll pull my favorite sweatshirt from the bottom of my dirty laundry.

I sleep in a sweatshirt when I need reassurance. It reminds me that things are going to be okay. Like being wrapped up in a warm embrace, but an embrace that doesn’t end until I say so. My sweatshirt is my protector. At least that’s the way it feels on the nights I wear it with purpose.

Protect me. Save me from myself and from everyone around me. Bring me warmth and peace and love. Such silly thoughts about a piece of clothing, yet somehow I feel like I’m in my personal armor the second I put it on. It doesn’t fix anything, but it holds me. And that’s enough.

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