This is my story. It may be similar to yours, it may not.
I already feel like crap when I wake up. My stomach hurts; twisted, painful, knots. I roll over and see my sleeping fianceé, curled up in the blankets. Rolling around, I squint my eyes and the brightness of my phone. Am I sick? I glanced at the shelf next to me where an orange cylinder is staring at me. You’re forgetting something, it says. You forgot me. It hits me. I didn’t take my anxiety medication today.
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I sigh, sliding out of bed to get ready for the day. I let my fianceé sleep in; she doesn’t have class until later. I dress silently, forcing myself to not think about how my mental health could affect my day. I’m not going to let it, I decide.
And for most of the day, it doesn’t. I go to class and focus on the Declaration of Independence and Buddhism and other things that pertain to my major. For most of the day, it’s OK. It really is. My classes go by in a blur of lectures, powerpoints and long walks to in the rain.
Everything goes by fast enough that I can pretend that my anxiety is under control. It isn’t, though. Bubbling under the surface is not the same thing as in control. I’m floating in water without a life jacket, and sure, right now I’m floating, but I can see a storm coming down the stream, and everyone around me thinks I’m on the boat next to them.
I come home and the house is quiet. My roommates are gone, which is almost a relief. I am immediately harassed by the smells of my home. My pets, who are calmly sleeping, smell horrible. I must have cleaned out the cat litter recently, right? Yesterday? The day before? Oh god, I’m a terrible pet owner. I can’t even keep track of when I clean up after them.
Moving about my house, I drop off my backpack on my couch. I had forgotten to zip it up when I left class, and the contents spill across my living room. Damp papers and textbooks, bleeding pens and markers, all over the carpet that I do not personally own.
It’s like an explosion happens inside of me. I’m cursing under my breath, bending over to pick up the possibly ruined items. Of course I was too stupid to zip up my backpack in the rain. Why would I do this? An assignment that was due the next day was completely ruined. My head feels hot. It’s loud in the living room because someone left the radio on in their room. Somehow I didn’t notice it before, but now it’s blaring in my ears. My dog starts barking, and my face is wet. Am I crying? Yep, definitely crying over some papers I let get rained on.
My fiancee isn’t home to help me. What would she tell me to do? How would she help me? I stand up, removing myself from the situation. That’s all I can do. I glance at one of my cats, hoping he doesn’t decide to shred my papers more, but at this point, is it even worth it?
I go to the kitchen to make myself some tea. Somehow, I end up cleaning the entire kitchen. It starts out with me washing a clean mug, which turns into my washing every dish. Which turns into wiping down the counters, which turns into cleaning out the microwave, which turns into rearranging the pantry. I’m not sure how it happens, but the soothing rhythm of the chores calms my mind. Once the kitchen is spotless and my fingers are pruned, I can make some tea.
I take my tea to my room, lighting a few candles along the way. I glance at the clock, this whole affair was only 45 minutes, from the moment I walked into the door until now. I rip off my bra and throw my hair up, sinking into bed. I breathe a sigh of relief. For the first time since I woke up, I feel ease.
I glance back up at the orange cylinder, mocking me. I have to go to work in a few hours. I have some readings and some homework to do. I can’t stay in my warm little nest forever, but I need to do this for a few moments.
I need to make sure I take my meds tomorrow. I can’t have a repeat. Days like this exhaust me, I'll probably cry for a while before heading to a six hour shift at work. This isn't every day of my life, but it is more than I'd like.
