If you’re reading this for a snippet of talk about God or a good read, stop right now.
I want to write right now, but I can’t.
My head is pounding, my eyelids puffed up, and every time I eat my body treats the food like a foreign substance.
Yet, I know I need to write. Writing has been my outlet for processing for many years now. It translates the throbbing thoughts of my brain into clear, tangible reality– reality that I can address, that I can do something about.
I know something is very different, though, when it takes me 3 minutes to write one single, easily-constructed sentence– and it still uses passive voice. Is it possible that I am too far gone for even writing to help?
Life changes a lot in a week, huh? I always used to say that to myself, but I am still surprised when it happens. Maybe I can find hope that this will all change in a week. It’s not true, though.
One of my roommates said to me today, “The old Annika would be absolutely dying right now. You must finally realize that you deserve better.”
I am dying right now– I’m just hiding it better. I laid in bed for an hour this morning trying to get myself to stand up (luckily, I woke up before my alarm, so it didn’t matter). I’m not ok– I’m just not externally dying.
The saddest part of this is it was my words that indicted me. Me just trying to process the normal turmoil that pulses through my INTJ brain became evidence against me.
None of this writing is coherent, but I need to stop writing. It’s not helping.