It’s not you. It’s me.
I want to be consistent. Really.
I want to wake up when my alarm goes off and greet the morning like the abundant blessing it is. Really.
I want to show up to work early. I have plans to do so. Really.
I want to keep the promises I make to you, to myself. I want to be better than I was yesterday, to be reliable, dependable, motivated, responsible, communicative. Really.
I want to create, to write, to read. Really.
I want to be incredibly productive, to go above and beyond, to impress and wow and awe, to show you all I’ve got. Really.
I want to show up at your place when I say I will, to do something about my own loneliness by getting out and talking to people once in a while. Really.
But right now, I’m all sorts of this way and none of that.
I want to tell you that the reason I am inconsistent is because most of my energy is focused on staying afloat, and treading water sometimes means letting the current take control for a time.
I want to tell you that I don’t always see the morning as a blessing because at least when I’m asleep, I don’t feel anxiety gnawing away at my self-confidence or depression eroding my self-worth. I’m tired, and the morning reminds me of that.
I want to tell you that my plans to show up early turn into plans to show up on time turn into plans just to show up because–well, to be honest, I don’t know how it happens.
I want to tell you depression and anxiety are humbling at best, crippling at worst, and disorienting always, and some days being better than yesterday means just being today.
I want to tell you that creating is an emptying of yourself, and some days I am stingy with myself; writing is like ripping off a scab, and some days blood makes me woozy; reading is words and meaning and story, and some days I’ve had a heavy dosing of all three and don’t need any more.
I want to tell you that I can’t even meet my own standards of excellence at this point because lately, just do enough to get by is the most self-motivation I can muster.
I want to tell you that when I bow out, cop out, no-show it’s not you–it’s me and this cloud of murky moods and its inconvenient demands.
I want to tell you that when that depression commercial about the wind-up doll plays, I want to scream because it is so seriously spot-on that it pisses me off on a bad day and makes me cry on a good one.
I want to tell you, “Lately, I’m depressed, which is why I’ve been all sorts of this way and not that, so can I lean on you for a bit?”
But I’m afraid of what you might say.
No. No, that’s not all of it. I’m afraid of what you might think.
No. Still not all of it.
I’m afraid that what you might say might just be pity or concern. I’m afraid that what you might say might be a veneer to cover up what you might think. I’m afraid what you might think is, “Wow, excuses much?” or “Wow, suck it up!” or “Wow, you poor thing.”
I’m terrified of looking weak. I’m terrified of making excuses. I don’t want you to treat me differently. So really, it’s not you. It’s me.
I just want you to know that I am often wrestling with myself, and that’s why I am all sorts of this way and not that.
It’s not you. It’s me.