Today is a bad day.
It is my first bad day in well over six months, and it has scared me shitless. It didn’t start out a bad day—it was my first morning off for a while, I didn’t have anything on and was looking forward to a sleep in and a duvet day. I slept in, which was nice. I popped out for ice cream, which was very nice. I took a cute photo of said ice cream and posted it on Instagram, as if I was out enjoying the sunshine and having a happy day, despite coming home and going straight to bed to read and sleep for the next four hours.
It was one of those weird sleeps where you wake up totally on the wrong planet and have a headache and feel way worse for it. My boyfriend has been patiently trying to rouse me every so often because he knows that this is bad for me and how I get, but I keep refusing because I don’t want to do anything therefore the easiest thing to do is sleep. I tell him to leave me alone and finally, he snaps, “Just get up, it’s not that hard!” I wish that were true. This is where the fear and the guilt sets in; fear that I’m slipping back into my old, dark self. Guilt that I’ve completely ignored and shut him off all day.
As I’m writing this, I am still to get out of bed and have a shower. I’m realising that once you’ve been through the worst of it and come out on top and are a happy, healthy person now, there’s a weird pressure not to go back. That at the first sign of ‘not okay-ness’, my brain goes into overdrive worrying and sending me into the oh-so-familiar spiral. Maybe I’ll always get days like this every so often, maybe everyone does. Just because you’re better now, doesn’t mean you always have to be better. The difference is that these days don’t last weeks or months. The difference is that tomorrow is a new day, and I know I’ll be okay.