Most of the time these days, I wake up early, but not too early. I am well-rested, and rolling out of bed is slow and luxurious I drink my coffee: I eat my granola. Two hours pass on my couch answering email, replying to messages, and otherwise ordering my day. Then I do my chores and leave for work, driving Boris some seven miles to work.
The tunes are good: the roads are, for Boston, clear, and my day is spent solving good problems, real problems. Sometimes I have lunch with friends: sometimes I have plans that night. I might go to the gym. I might take a long walk.
If it's not a workday, I'm busy: walking, visiting friends, maybe on a road trip. The road, and world, is wide, and full of possibilities.
I come home late in the evening, fix myself a snack, and maybe do some writing. If I'm going to some kind of social engagement that weekend, I might put some thought into that: I might do some wire-wrapping. With Google Maps open, the latest trip is planned out and executed.
Plans are made: things are done.
I am in bed before midnight, a cat asleep at my feet, my hair braided, tired but optimistic.
But these are not those days.
These days, I sleep five to six hours, sometimes uninterrupted, often not. I wake up late, still tired. Getting out of bed hurts: everything hurts. I drink coffee because otherwise my head will hurt worse than it already does. Begrudgingly, I put food into myself. My work laptop becomes a slog of reading through email, and my day isn't ordered, except by meetings. It takes force to do even a bit of the chores, and driving to work feels like a ten mile march, through a marsh, with no boots.
I'm tired. I'm so tired.
My brain is a dull din of trauma and current stressors. The skyline feels like a trap: work seems inconsequential, save for the occasional bright flashes of light and insight from mentors who, even in this depressed state, are sources of hope and inspiration.
I come home late in the evening, and it's hard to remember to eat. When I go to social engagements, I often find myself drunk and holding brief, surface-level conversations. With closer friends, it's easier to talk to them about the current thing eating my brain: with luck, I'm able to push away the things causing the active emotional pain and distress. It feels like palliative care
The world feels narrowed and hopeless, and I sit, staring dully into my laptop until I'm too tired to focus my eyes.
I am bed before 0300, the cat yowling elsewhere in the apartment, my hair tangled, and tomorrow promises more of the same.