It Wasn’t a Good Day

Today wasn’t a good day. My depression hit an all-time high, or low. I’m not even sure which fits anymore. Last night, I didn’t sleep. That’s not new; it’s been my reality for the past five months.

Every couple of weeks, I hit this wall where I stop sleeping or eating altogether. Sleep is always a struggle, but this week, I managed two nights of decent rest. It felt like a miracle. But even then, waking up was like dragging myself out of quicksand.

People talk about struggling to get out of bed. I’ve been there. But this? This is something else. My body refuses to cooperate. My mind tells me to stay under the covers, whispering that nothing out there is worth the effort.

The headaches come first, sharp, relentless, like my skull is cracking open. Then comes the nausea, this gut-deep sickness that feels like my body is betraying itself. My hands shake. My anxiety spirals. And the darkness of my depression pulls me further down.

This morning, I forced myself to take a shower and go to work. Eight hours at my desk, staring blankly at my computer. The screen was bright, the letters sharp, but I couldn’t make sense of a single word. Sentences blurred together, not because my eyes were failing me, but because of the weight pressing on me.

I sent two emails. That’s it. Just two.

The rest of the day, I sat motionless, trapped in an endless loop of thoughts, each heavier than the last.

By the afternoon, the ache inside of me was unbearable. A crushing loneliness settled over me. Objectively, I know there are good things happening in my life. But what’s the point of any of it when there’s no one to share them with?

I don’t have friends. I don’t talk to my family. I’ve tried, but I get little to no response from them. I’m done trying. Reaching out to people who don’t care takes too much out of me, that's why I write.

And then there’s. . . . . her. There are times I feel like I have lost my mind, but the truth is, I have regret.

I don’t hate her. I’ve tried, God, I’ve tried, to hate her, thinking it would help me forget, help me move forward. But it doesn’t work. The truth is, I’ve never hated her. I never could.

When I think back to everything, the encouragement, the support, the moments we shared, I realize how much of myself I poured into her. I wanted so badly to be the one who made a difference in her life, who showed her what she was capable of. But now, all I feel is this empty space where she used to be.

I encouraged her when no one else did. I believed in her when she didn’t believe in herself. I wanted to be her anchor, her safe place, her home. But somewhere along the way, I lost myself.

She’s moved on, and I’m stuck here, trying to piece together the person I used to be, or maybe the person I want to be. But it’s hard because I don’t recognize myself anymore.

There are moments when I think about the good times we shared, and for a second, I feel hopeful. But that hope quickly turns to sadness. And the sadness? It leaves me hollow.

I feel like a shell of who I was, and I don’t know how to fill that emptiness. I want to care, to fight, to feel like myself again. But most days, I don’t know where to start.

Tonight, as I sat in the quiet, I felt the weight of everything I’ve lost pressing down on me. The person I used to be feels like a distant memory, someone I can barely remember. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe it’s time to stop looking back and start figuring out who I am now, without her, without the past holding me down.

I don’t know how long it will take, but I want to believe there’s still a way forward—a way to feel whole again.