So many posts, so little motivation

Whenever I get high, I get in my head. Sometimes in a really good way. Because I let my walls down, so I get into the parts of my head that are screaming to be seen. So, I take note. Notes on my phone that start with “blog” or “blog again.” They mean, LOOK AT THIS. LOOK AT ME AND FEEL IT.

Sober me doesn’t take a look at, maybe I don’t want to look at them. The alive version of myself wants to be seen so I write it down for future me to see. But, because all of them require a radical presence and an in depth dissection into my life and my feelings, I don’t open them.

A few of the posts the alive me has wanted to divulge in but ends up avoiding at all cost:

  • What must it be like for my daughter to live in my depression? All the shades are drawn and I’ve somehow slept as much as I can until 12PM. Only then will I become functional. It’s not THAT bad, but it’s dark in my house. The kitchen sink is full. My child indulges in the television, unaware that she is still in her pajamas at noon, and why sometimes that’s a problem.
  • Being present in my body feels lively. It makes me feel…alive. Finally. I’ve been missing this since I took my meds, at least that’s what I tell myself. Although I think I’ve been missing this since I decided to check out of my life. Which happened towards the end of Katie, my last relationship. I checked out entirely. It has nothing to do with my meds at all, I’m just not trying to be present in my life. How do I get back there?
  • Moving on from Katie. I don’t need to feel conflicted about her anymore. I don’t need to cry about her anymore. This is what letting go feels like. Soft and slow. I will be okay.
  • Dad. I don’t need to show up for everyone else’s needs by burying my own. This includes you. Putting you first is painful. It breaks me in more ways than anyone else can. But I do it, again and again. Until I don’t. Until I’m fed up for long enough to put me first. I don’t need to feel bad about myself for doing what I need to do – for me. And only me. 


I will write about all of these over quarantine, for me. And I will make a promise, to me, to find myself again.

Me, me, me.

And that’s fucking okay.

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