Both literally and metaphorically.
A few days ago, while I was watering the plants (which is something I enjoy doing barefoot), I slipped and fell. And I sprained my ankle. Being the embodiment of grace, this has happened to me before, as you can imagine. It doesn't matter how many times it's happened though, it still hurt like a motherfucker. ("Ooh, Lu! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" No, I don't. I don't kiss anyone with that mouth. Ha!)
The last time I got a boo boo on my ankle, I was still living with my parents. Which means that I could lie down and let my ankle rest comfortably on a pillow while my mum cleaned the house and my dad brought me freshly squeezed orange juice, which is like, his favourite thing. Since I don't live with my parents anymore and there was no one to tell me to take it easy and rest my bluish-looking ankle, AND SINCE THERE WERE THINGS TO BE DONE AROUND THE HOUSE, well... I did the things that needed to be done. (Without nagging. Progress.) Which only led to a not speedy recovery. I spent a week limping around and laughing at myself. Laughing at myself was the only kind of laughter I could manage. Because I'm still on medication which not only makes me depressed, it also started causing actual, physical pain. Many parts of my body -lady parts mostly- feel like they're constantly being stabbed. It's not very amusing.
So, I was at a 'everything hurts' point, taking so many pills that I couldn't even consider swallowing painkillers and depression kept whispering in my ear, "You know what you can do to make it stop, don't you? You can make it aaall stop!" that asshole said. And the thing is, I was so desperate that I actually began thinking about it. Tonight, I metaphorically fell. I hit rock bottom. And as I was crying over a glass of ice tea, I almost made up my mind. I wrote some things down, important things, who gets what and a note to my sister, telling her which of my documents should never be seen by human eyes. (This is pretty depressing, huh? Hold on, it gets better.)
When I was done, I thought to myself, hey, MS Word is open, I might as well write a poem. So I did. And when that was over, I wrote a short story. And then another poem and another and before I knew it, I was feeling so creative, not exactly talented, but creative enough to pick myself up and stop the nonsense. I guess when you've finally landed at the bottom, there really is no way to go but up. One step at a time, right? I'll be focusing on breathing for a while. Hopefully, smiling will come next, although I have a stupid smile. Be patient with me, I'm trying.
A few days ago, while I was watering the plants (which is something I enjoy doing barefoot), I slipped and fell. And I sprained my ankle. Being the embodiment of grace, this has happened to me before, as you can imagine. It doesn't matter how many times it's happened though, it still hurt like a motherfucker. ("Ooh, Lu! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?" No, I don't. I don't kiss anyone with that mouth. Ha!)
The last time I got a boo boo on my ankle, I was still living with my parents. Which means that I could lie down and let my ankle rest comfortably on a pillow while my mum cleaned the house and my dad brought me freshly squeezed orange juice, which is like, his favourite thing. Since I don't live with my parents anymore and there was no one to tell me to take it easy and rest my bluish-looking ankle, AND SINCE THERE WERE THINGS TO BE DONE AROUND THE HOUSE, well... I did the things that needed to be done. (Without nagging. Progress.) Which only led to a not speedy recovery. I spent a week limping around and laughing at myself. Laughing at myself was the only kind of laughter I could manage. Because I'm still on medication which not only makes me depressed, it also started causing actual, physical pain. Many parts of my body -lady parts mostly- feel like they're constantly being stabbed. It's not very amusing.
So, I was at a 'everything hurts' point, taking so many pills that I couldn't even consider swallowing painkillers and depression kept whispering in my ear, "You know what you can do to make it stop, don't you? You can make it aaall stop!" that asshole said. And the thing is, I was so desperate that I actually began thinking about it. Tonight, I metaphorically fell. I hit rock bottom. And as I was crying over a glass of ice tea, I almost made up my mind. I wrote some things down, important things, who gets what and a note to my sister, telling her which of my documents should never be seen by human eyes. (This is pretty depressing, huh? Hold on, it gets better.)
When I was done, I thought to myself, hey, MS Word is open, I might as well write a poem. So I did. And when that was over, I wrote a short story. And then another poem and another and before I knew it, I was feeling so creative, not exactly talented, but creative enough to pick myself up and stop the nonsense. I guess when you've finally landed at the bottom, there really is no way to go but up. One step at a time, right? I'll be focusing on breathing for a while. Hopefully, smiling will come next, although I have a stupid smile. Be patient with me, I'm trying.
2 claims:
what the actual fuck? It can't be that bad! You must think of it the wrong way...You have so much inside you, to give, like this story. It would be a pity. Would you ever consider of seeking help? Therapy? I myself have, and I haven't regret it a day.
@Μικρός Μπετόβεν
It comes and goes. I'm better now, much better and yes, I am considering getting therapy.
(Also, we should meet soon. I suspect you won't like me in person but let's give it a shot.)
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