I don't know, really. I just know I wanted to blog about this. It feels—not important, really, just like I should. I've always been open and honest about my mental illness, and I don't plan on making an exception for this. If you're here for the funnies or the writing advice, turn away.
So I haven't been to school in two weeks.
Well, that's not necessarily true. I went to school two Fridays ago for around two hours before I got my guidance counselor to call my mom to get me permission to leave. And you're wondering why, and, well: anxiety. It's been bad in pretty much every way—I haven't left the house willingly in a few weeks; I don't have any desire to interact with other people; I spend all my time hunched over my phone. (This sounds more like depression. I don't know how to words.)
Friday, my mom took me to a juvenile outpatient psychiatric facility, which is a long and cumbersome name for a place you go for a long and cumbersome time for some long and cumbersome therapy (seven hours a day, counting the three straight uninterrupted hours of "school," where we just do our homework). I start there tomorrow, on Monday. To be honest, I'm too tired to be nervous.
I haven't talked to my friends in weeks. I wish I cared more about this. It's not like I dislike my friends—in fact, they are my favorite people on the planet most days. But I just can't bring myself to get the energy to think about caring about this. I have talked to some online friends, but for fleeting periods of time. I actually have a text from a critique partner on my phone right now, and I should probably answer it, but the thought of having a conversation—though I love this critique partner dearly—makes me want to take a nap.
I haven't done homework in God knows how long. I've been neglecting self-care. The music I've been playing has been mostly Taylor Swift, but more "All Too Well" and "Sad Beautiful Tragic" than "Blank Space" or "Shake It Off," if you catch my drift.
I don't know exactly why I'm writing this. It isn't going to really help anyone, which is usually the reason I tweet/blog about depression and anxiety—to try to scratch the surface of helping other people. To be honest, I think I'm free-writing. I certainly haven't stopped to think about this stuff.
Maybe it's just because I want to tell stories. I've always told stories one way or another, and though this is a significantly less whimsical and more personal one, it's still a story. And I love those things so much.
Surprisingly, I have been reading—I read about a hundred pages of Hilary T. Smith's Wild Awake (which rocks, by the way) yesterday and thought I was the coolest person alive for that. Not much writing getting done, but what do you expect?
My heart hasn't really been in my tweets, though I don't know if that shows—I'm an exceptional actor. When I need to, I can turn on the smiles and the laughter and the fake. But yeah, tweeting usually gives me this weird joy because it's something I know I'm good at, but...lately, not so much? I tweet something and instead of rereading it and laughing at my own expense or my own ingenuity like usual, I just kind of shrug and say, "Meh." Though, all of your well-wishes and concern and the messages? They help. They really, really do. I love having this support system, and to be honest the fact that it's on the internet doesn't matter except that I wish I could hug you all but I can't which makes me sad. Anyway:
I hope I bounce back; I really do. I don't enjoy feeling like this blob of TIREDNESS and ANXPRESSION (DEPXIETY?). Also, I trust that I will bounce back. It's just one of those Bad Days (a few in succession, actually), and I figured I'd tell you all about it because I'm weird. We've established that. Come on.
I love you guys embarrassing amounts; take care of yourselves; let me nap another five minutes, 'kay?