Laying in bed, I can see the sun shining through the window. My red curtains are illuminated and resemble more of a dusky pink in the darkened room. I am on my stomach and am in the most incredibly comfortable position. Everything is bliss, except for the sound of my alarm chirping away. It’s the fourth time that my alarm has gone off, yet I am still laying in bed. I swat at my phone to turn off my alarm and knock it off the side table. I wrestle with my CPAP mask as I reach for the phone that is now dangling, suspended by the power cord. The piping to my CPAP machine is caught under my pillow and below my arm, so as I move, I am pulling my face in the opposite direction. With all this commotion, I awaken the laying beast, my boy cat Hunter, and he begins to frantically chime in with my alarm and begins with the incessant howling. I manage to get my mask from my face and the machine turned to off. I rescue the daredevil phone and extinguish the chirping of birds that is my morning alarm. I lay back in my bed, flopping my head onto my pillow. What a morning wake up routine. I should be energized from the three-ring circus that just took place, but I am exhausted.
The truth is, I have never been a morning person. I mean maybe when I was a baby, and perhaps on Christmas morning as a child, but not at any time that I can recall in the last few decades. Me and mornings just don’t mix, oil and water come to mind. To make matters worse, I have come down off a pseudo manic high that lasted a few weeks and now am crawling through the bowels of depression. It wasn’t my worst manic high, nor is this my worst depression, but I am not in the place where I need to be. I am struggling.
It’s 8 am. I’ve been in bed for at least an hour longer than I should be, so I really need to get out of bed. I make it to the kitchen in the morning and I pour myself a cup of coffee. The first cup of coffee goes down quick, and the second one just as easy. Usually after the first cup of coffee, I can feel it in my veins. I get the jolt. I feel the caffeine, I get that urge in my legs to move and do things. But that has not been the case as of late. Recently, I lack the desire to get up and fix myself breakfast. I just don’t want to move. Part of me wants to talk to someone, but then again, I don’t want to say a word, I just want to be in bed. I want to be curled up under my covers hiding from the world and all the responsibility that clouds my vision on a normal day.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Is it a wash my hair day? Can I manage to make it another day without a shampooing? Hell, do I even need to shower? Can I miss a day, and will anyone notice? The thought of showering is just overwhelming. But I come to a compromise and I decide, wash the body, skip the hair. My legs are furry, I should really shave them, but that means I would need to bend down and do that whole shaving motion thing and that’s just too much to ask when you already had to convince yourself to even get in the shower to begin with. It’s a shame too. I have a closet full of beautiful skirts and dresses, so they have gone unworn for the last few days, or has it been a week, because of this lack of a desire to keep up my hygiene.
With furry legs, I must determine what I am going to wear. Can I pull off a large shirt and leggings? No, Michelle, you must wear real clothes. So, jeans it is. But with the recent weight gain, I have only a few pairs that fit and I am not in a place where I am all on board with trying on multiple pairs of pants for them only to be too snug. Having to pull on pants that are too snug will only make me feel worse. I settle for the jeans I wore yesterday, with a soft top that is a borderline t-shirt but can maybe pass as a blouse. Now, to find a pair of shoes to wear, Ugg.
Each step of my morning feels like it is weighted. That everything I do takes two to three times as much effort as it should. Why do I feel so heavy? Why is everything so overwhelming? Why can’t I shake this fog? I have things to do, people to see, work to complete, school studies to learn and be tested on. I do not have time for depression. I do not have the desire to be depressed. How did this even come about? How can I be doing soooo good and then wake up one day and be just plain not good? It’s like there is this annoying fly that keeps circling my head. I keep shooing it away, and it keeps coming back. Shoo fly, please, please, please, don’t bother me.