It's 1:30am. My bedroom smells like pumpkin farts and a cold I'm tired of having. Depression is wrapping its bony fingers around my shoulders as it often does when I can't do things—when I'm useless. It's the catch-22 of mood and mend. I don't feel well, can't do, therefore don't do, therefore feel badly about not doing, and the spiral of loathing begins.
Fortunately, I think and hope, I have some kind of clarity about it this time around. I also have people making sure I know it to be okay. So important. Also, writing. And pictures. And sunshine. Amen for sunny days and fresh air. Even a few rays sneaking in through sunlights and open windows make a huge difference. Eventually, the tunnel of suckitude will cease, and I will feel better.
Colds shouldn't knock me on my ass like this. The more I read about fibromyalgia, the more it makes sense that they do, but I hate to think that's the case. Big pile of crap.
I feel like a character from a Victorian novel. Truly pathetic. Fetch me a hot water bottle, and lock me away in a room on the third floor.
And why pumpkin farts? Is the ghost of Thanksgivings past ripping ass under my bed? Oh, NyQuil, what have you done?