Our beds are warm, and sometimes the comfort we find beneath our blankets is the only comfort we find at all; we long so deeply for the touch of another person, for their arms to be wrapped around us, for their words to tell us that everything will be all right… but I do not have that person, I do not have those arms or words. All I have is my bed, my pillows, my comforter to mimic the sensation of physical contact.
|photo: kristin vogt|
I spend most of my days in pyjama pants and a hoodie—I can’t seem to find the strength to actually get dressed, to leave my house, to get out of my head long enough to interact with anyone. My social life has been reduced to text and instant messages, to status updates and shares and likes… The mere thought of having to speak with most people, in person, terrifies me. I wish I could stay, wrapped in my blanket, warm and safe from the world beyond the walls of my house.
Instead of my bed, I sit on my couch, curled in on myself with a cup of coffee and whatever I decide to watch or listen to playing from my computer. The shadows in my mind have taken control of my life, and even though I have stayed faithful to my medication, the will to push through all of this darkness has left me and I long for the silence and the comfort of sleep, the softness of my pillows mimicking the feel of a human body against my own.
Waking up in the morning is difficult, there is no way around it. I do not want to leave, I do not want to put my feet on the ground, to rub my eyes and put my glasses on, to start my days alone and cold. But, after a few minutes of struggling against the weight of my pain and fear, I find that my bed pushes me out, it lifts me up and gives me a gentle shove to get my day started.