It’s Monday morning and it’s cold and early and I should be somewhere amazing doing something amazing right now; looking and behaving like a normal person, surrounded by normal people, a shining beacon of normality in a sea of sane. If I put my hair up and wear my glasses I’d pass for intelligent and approachable and someone who deserves to be listened to.
But…*glances down at pyjamas*…yeah.
I got invited to a thing, but I had to turn it down. I almost went, almost gave into the bit of me that likes to throw caution to the wind with its fuck it all attitude that inevitably ends in tears. Admittedly, with the right encouragement and someone resplendent with the strength and wit to see me through the day, I’d have gone.
This is one of the many facets of the daily struggle of being; the ability to know when I need to say no, to accept that I can’t do everything and sometimes I can’t even do anything and I need to Know My Limits because I Am Not Well.
I hate it, I hate being bound to something like that. Physically, unless I’m in the throes of a particularly delicious panic attack, I’m fine. I can walk in heels and hold my own and I have the mental capacity and experience to negotiate the tubes like a pro. I can smile and nod in all of the right places and construct valid arguments and litter them with wry humour and and and…I feel like so much of myself is just fucking wasted when I can’t do so many of the things I want to.
It’s just, my mind; It would implode. I’d end up a crumpled wreck, either on the 8:52 from Oxford Circus or at 20:52 in my bed once it was all over. It likes to keep me guessing.
In a lot of (what my mind decides are) high stress situations, I tend not to be emotionally present anyway; sitting tense and highly alert, wringing sweaty palms and breathing in for five and out for seven and praying for it all to be over.
So, on occasions like this, I sit in My Little Pony pyjama trousers and I drink tea and silently hate this aspect of myself and whichever misfiring brain receptor leads me here.
It’s not just the big stuff either, the seemingly smaller stuff gets stuffed up too; the times when I have to reluctantly bow out of a day or an evening or ten minutes out because I’m not well enough to handle anything more than my bed or the sofa or the pages of a book or the bottom of a mug of tea.
I fucking hate being restricted like this.
I hate letting people down, it is so at odds with the rest of my personality. Honest, I care about people and places and stuff and things. I hate looking like a flake, the simmering undercurrent of fear that I’m going to lose people I care about because I have to say, again, that I just can’t. I hate the embarrassment and shame and general self loathing.
One day I’ll wear my fuck off heels, flick my hair and dazzle with my intellect and change this shitty world. Maybe. Until then, if you need me, I’ll be on the sofa with my legs curled underneath me and my glasses balanced on my head, tweeting and absent mindedly chewing on the end of a pencil.