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Sunday

I woke up at six this morning. The sun brightened my room, its light softened by my curtains. Another restless night spent tossing and turning, lying on my back attempting to allow the ambient noise of a manufactured thunderstorm on Youtube wash over me and lull me to sleep. But to no avail.

Around two this morning, I had gotten out of bed to sit on the floor of my unfurnished living room and watch 27 Dresses, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia in hand. I’ll always be a sucker for a good rom-com and James Marsden. The movie ended and I walked myself back to my room, the linoleum wood panels cool beneath my feet. I slid my bedroom door shut behind me and slipped into bed again.

I stumbled upon a forty-five minute love reading for the Aquarius collective and realized I had failed to take my meds again. How many nights in a row was this? I’d sleep the day away if I took them now, so I settled into bed praying this fortune teller might lull me to sleep. But to no avail. I turned over on my side and opened up TikTok, finally scrolling myself to sleep.

I awoke at six to my cat standing on my chest. I got out of bed, opened the curtains to let the light in, sat on the floor of my living room, and did my morning meditation. I set my intentions for the week and then decided I wasn’t quite ready to face the day, and so I walked myself back to my room and slipped into bed again.

I scrolled aimlessly, read a Washington Post article about the US bombs hitting Iran, and worried myself back to sleep whilst thinking of my friend in the military whom I last heard from some seven months ago.

I had the same dream I always have when I worry for him. The one where I’m helping him pack his bags. This time it felt much heavier, much darker, and far more real than what I had grown accustomed to over the years.

I awoke briefly to pray I might get a proof of life text or call from him. Then closed my eyes once again and slept.

Monday

I woke up at six again—this time on purpose. I actually remembered to take my meds last night, went to bed at a reasonable time, and slept through the night. I refuse to fall into another depressive episode.

Summers can be hard. Not having my usual routine and structure often leaves me feeling lost and directionless. Is it normal to find this much purpose in a job?

The sun wasn’t shining through my window this morning; its light was obscured by the heavy morning clouds. It filled me with a strange sense of melancholy. I scrolled through TikTok to shake that feeling off and ended up crying to an unreleased song by Absolutely. Will I ever experience a love like the one she wrote about?

Sometimes I worry I was placed on this earth to give love, but not receive it. Almost every love I’ve experienced has been unrequited or abusive. The latter of which I suppose is not love at all.

I try not to kick myself for falling so deep, so fast. It can be a beautiful thing to completely surrender to the currents of your emotions, however unreasonable they may be. And it’s probably the result of some unhealed childhood wound. So it’s not completely my fault, right?

Loving the wrong people can be exhausting, but I have never regretted giving my love to someone. Perhaps they needed it. I am, however, ready to experience a love that invigorates me. One that lights a fire within me and consumes me. But perhaps I was never meant to receive that. Perhaps I was only ever meant to give it.

Tuesday

I woke up at five. I’m trying not to scroll first thing in the morning, but I sat on my phone for forty-two minutes before getting out of bed. I willed myself to sleep last night. The hydroxyzine took longer than expected to kick in, but I was tired of being awake. I quietly wondered if that sentiment could be considered casual ideation. Then promptly decided not to feed into that thought experiment any longer.

Yesterday I went to the pharmacy to pick up my meds. I always feel a strange sense of shame when they say I have five prescriptions waiting to be picked up. I don’t know why my cocktail of anti-depressants, anti-psychotics, and sleep medication makes me so self-conscious. I suppose it could be because it ruins my facade of wellness.

I hate going to the doctor for the same reason. Having to list all the medications I’m on is humiliating. I try to tell myself that I’m not ashamed of my diagnosis. Deep down, I know I am. It comes with such an intense stigma and is deeply misunderstood. It’s a word thrown around in casual conversation to describe intense weather or someone acting unreasonably.

I know that I’m hyperaware and hyper-vigilant about my decisions and how I express myself because of that. I don’t want to be perceived as crazy or unreasonable. Honestly, I often stifle my emotions because of that; I don’t want to be seen as unwell.

I hate that this diagnosis cannot be folded up and tied with a bow to be stashed away at the back of my dresser drawer—it is loud and bold and demands to be seen at the most inopportune of times. I hate the discomfort people feel when I tell them about it or when it rears its ugly head when they’re around. I hate how it’s been weaponized against me—telling me what I’m feeling lacks validity and reason. But, most of all, I hate the way I hate it.

Wednesday

I woke up at seven today. Last night was the first night in weeks where I slept all through the night. I laid in bed for about forty-five minutes, occasionally dozing off, before I finally got out of bed.

I’m flying home to Maryland today. I’m weirdly anxious about my toiletry bag. I know everything follows TSA protocol, but I keep checking and double checking to make sure. Traveling makes me anxious.

I haven’t done my morning meditation yet. I have, however, watched my weekly horoscope. I don’t remember a single thing she said.

Yesterday I asked God, or the universe, or whatever it is I believe in what lesson I was meant to learn from the breakup. The answer was loud, and exactly what I expected: learning to let go, relinquishing control, being comfortable in not knowing, and finding peace in discomfort.

I know that I’m someone who finds comfort in having the answer. I intellectualize my emotions for that very reason—and then call it “processing”. In reality, all I’ve done is created a level of distance between myself and my feelings because I can’t bear to sit in the discomfort of sadness or anger.

It’s strange because I don’t necessarily internalize or bottle up my emotions. In fact—I view myself as quite external when it comes to expressing myself. I have to talk through my feelings in order to rid myself of them and the sooner I can do that, the better.

That’s one place where my ex and I didn’t align. He was someone who internalized his feelings and I was the opposite. We didn’t understand each other and, consequently, didn’t know how to emotionally support each other.

One of the things I hated most about him was how fast he would be to offer a solution to my feelings. It always felt like I was being stripped of my autonomy. I hate being told what to do and I hate unsolicited advice. I hate how he made me feel unreasonable for not wanting to take his advice.

In my reflection on that relationship, I’ve found that he often robbed me of my autonomy. He isolated me from a group that should have been mutual friends of ours. He refused to invite me out if he deemed it was something I might dislike. He rarely gave me the opportunity to say yes or no to him—all while he had freewill to do as he pleased. I was sequestered, kept behind closed doors, to be seen only when he felt it necessary, but never heard.

Breaking up with him was a reclamation of my autonomy. It was a reclamation of my humanity, too.

Thursday

I woke up at ten today. The bedroom I sleep in at Esther’s apartment doesn’t have windows, so the sun can’t peek in and wake me up.

Esther made us breakfast: eggs, toast, and turkey bacon. We ate, then watched The Pitt. We retreated back to our rooms to shower and get dressed. I did my morning meditation, albeit a little late.

We ended up walking to the mall because she needed shoes for a dance class. We talked about the strange way teenagers exist in public—not wanting to be perceived whilst behaving in ways that always attract attention.

It’s funny how we grow out of that behavior. How those of us who still don’t want to be seen learn to shrink ourselves in adulthood. Sometimes I feel jealous of my friends who are comfortable with being seen—the way they float through a space so effortlessly. I always find myself overthinking my steps, overanalyzing my body language. Am I too open? Now, am I too closed off?

Anxiety is such a self-centered disorder. Conceptually I know that no one is looking at me; they’re all too busy thinking about themselves. And yet, I still find myself worrying about strangers whispering behind my back. And I still overthink every interaction—scanning them for any possible missteps.

I wonder if there was ever a time where I didn’t experience this anxiety? I was timid as a child. I’m less timid now, but it comes at the cost of me kicking myself after social interactions—even if I did nothing wrong. I wish I could float through a room and light it up. But I worry that I was always meant to exist in the shadows.

Friday

I woke up at eight today. I didn’t sleep through the night. The first time I woke up, at four, he was at the forefront of my mind. I suppose his silence this time is more worrisome than before. I laid in bed and planned out a capsule wardrobe to distract myself.

The second time I woke up, at eight, my ex was at the forefront of my mind. That relationship was a mirror in the worst way; it reflected every imperfection I possess. My fear of rejection, my anxious attachment, my need to be seen as reasonable and balanced and not fucking crazy.

Karee’s words echo in my mind, “I don’t like the way he made you talk about yourself.” How many times had I called or texted her in tears begging her to tell me I wasn’t being crazy?

After we broke up, I immediately thought I had made a mistake—acted hastily in my annoyance and frustration. I thought I needed him. I wrote poem after poem. Even in separation, I was convinced he was my greatest muse.

We stopped talking two weeks after my twenty-sixth birthday. A mere four months after our nearly two year-long relationship ended and he had already started seeing someone else.

My grandmother passed shortly after we broke up and I had fallen into a deep depression. In our last conversation he said he was thankful for me for carrying him through our master’s program, but that he wanted someone who knew how to “take care of herself.” I’m not sure how I could have carried him through a degree I was also getting and simultaneously not possess the ability to care for myself, but those words stuck in my mind. Worse than worming his way into my heart, this man had wormed his way into my head.

My performance at work suffered, my apartment fell into disarray, I could barely function. And, despite what he had said to me, I still thought I needed him.

It took me months to shake that feeling, but, God, was it liberating when I finally saw him for who he truly was. He had sucked the life out of me. An emotional vampire, and I was finally free of him.