I’ve been sick for five days (I think? It could have been four. Or six.). Fever, coughing, stuffy head, gastrointestinal ickiness, the whole unlovely, unpleasant drill.
My mind doesn’t understand the difference between staying in bed all day because of a virus, and staying in bed all day because of depression. If I stay in bed all day, I get depressed.
Sort of like, if you hold me under water long enough, I drown.
My brain says that life sucks, has always sucked, will always suck, and it says all of that loudly. My brain says that I’m useless; that I’ll never accomplish anything that matters. Adrift on my couch, I believe everything it says.
This morning, Carter woke up and told me a dream story; something about hairy pigs wearing dresses, and then he wanted to get all our dogs on the bed with us. He laughed at Blossom’s bald anus (Brian shaves it every month because otherwise, she runs around with a poop-encrusted ass which is, to understate quite dramatically, unpleasant.) and Lolly crawled under the covers like a giant worm while Doodle made how did I get mixed up with this nutty crowd? faces at us.
I can breathe again.
And just like that, the world is right-side-up again. Turns out, my body can make new memories.