But the fly…

Slow. I’m moving slowly. Slower every day. I catch myself going too fast and I say to myself, like the bunny in the back of the car meme “slow the fuck down!” so I move slower. Slow, slowly, and then slower.

I catch my steps, my physical steps. “Slow down” I say to myself. The fly, though, the fly keeps flying.

The fly has been here for days. It buzzes by, a house fly, one of those big ones from my childhood. And it reminds me.

It reminds me of sadness and hoards. It reminds me of fear of velvet deer paintings at the end of the hall and glass that I step on, only to bleed and examine, with fascination, the clots.

The fly knows. Still, I move slow, counting my steps, every step with intention. The fly flies, every beat of its wings with intention, I wonder? How much does the fly know?

Untitled Document…

Better days are unknown.

Historically, when I’m starting to go downhill, I talk about it a bit. When things are bad, I mention it, perhaps in passing. When they get worse, I mention it, perhaps in passing. When they get S level, I no longer know what to say because I’ve already said it.

The flares have already been fired and are dying out. The arms are tired of waving, so they fall limp to my sides. The voice that states “I’m unwell” goes to a whisper, then silence.

What else do I do? During all of these moments of saying “I’m not doing well”, “I don’t feel well”, “I feel hopeless and worthless”, “I’m not sure what to do” I’m also scouring the internet for self help. I search in sentences: “how to be self sufficient”, “how to not rely on other people”, “how to get rid of hopeless feelings”, etc… None of my searches have helped. And I felt very, very lost.

He asked me a question a couple of hours ago, just a simple “what are you doing?”. My voice cracked. I was just getting a drink from the kitchen, but what was I really doing? Internally, I was making a plan. A solid plan.

The tears came and no words would come out when he asked me what was wrong. All the words that I’ve been saying “I’m unwell”, “I’m not doing well”, “I feel hopeless” never registered for him prior to this moment. The depth didn’t, I don’t think.

I gathered myself and said those words again. All of them. It’s partly my fault, I think. I didn’t say them enough, maybe. I didn’t use the right tone. I didn’t elaborate. I didn’t do enough of something. Maybe I complain too much. I know I’m often unwell, maybe I’m unwell too often. I don’t feel well that often. I feel hopeless sometimes.

I will be getting in touch with my doctor tomorrow morning. A healthy plan will be in place.

Since 2019, I’ve tried to be more vulnerable. I’ve tried to share how I’m feeling more often, when asked, and I’ve tried to be honest.

My responses, though, tend to get drowned out by other things. The recipient’s own internal dialogue, maybe. Their feelings, how their day went. The television. Video games. What’s happening on a screen. Etc…

Back I go to searching the internet: “How not to need help”, “how to be self sufficient”, “how to be stable”….and it goes on. At least tomorrow I have a positive plan.

Maybe better days are ahead.