All I’ve got to do is fill her bowl.
If it were up to me, I’d stay cocooned in this duvet of misery, but I wake up to her whiskers tickling my cheeks and despite the way my instincts begin to scream, I know I’ve got to go.
I’ve got to fill her bowl.
But filling her bowl means I have to go downstairs, and to go downstairs I have to kick off the covers but once I’ve kicked off the covers I’ve got to put on some clothes. And to put on some clothes I have to find something clean but to find something clean I have to start doing laundry – rather than ending every workday by getting ridiculously stoned. Not that it matters since I don’t really step out of the house anymore.
But I’ve still got to fill her bowl.
And even if I don’t step out of the house itself, there are enough people around for whom I’d rather maintain the status quo. And to maintain a status quo, I have to leave Depression at the bedroom door. And to leave Depression at the door, I have to be mindful to not get triggered by the myriad of questions that will follow, but to be able to answer those, I can’t be perpetually spaced out anymore, so to return to reality I have to stop dwelling within fictional shows, hoping they will drown out the repetitive trains of thought that keep rattling without any destination to go; but to truly drown it all out, I have to set new goals.
Which begins with filling her bowl.
For setting goals any bigger than that has only backfired lately so it seems easiest to resign to the unknown. And to resign to the unknown I will have to, for the first time in my life, knowingly give up control, and giving up control means regardless of how badly I may want it, I can’t yet go home. Giving up control means accepting that love alone is just a feeling, not a superpower that eradicates any obstacle down the road. Giving up control means considering the future from a broader scope but if you’re not too careful then giving up control can feel eerily familiar to giving up hope. For giving up control can mean accepting you can’t chase after a memory, a job, a dream, or someone you love indefinitely, but cocooned in this duvet of misery as Depression sleeps next to me, it is impossible to envision a life at all, when our pillow-talk is just tracing a laundry-list of losses to mourn. When I lay down almost a year ago, it was meant to be a temporary break that snowballed into a tremendous weight that sits forcefully on my chest and refuses to let me out of bed despite my never-ending yet inadequate attempts so on most days it is easier to convince myself that it wouldn’t make much of a difference if this mattress absorbed me whole until I simply didn’t exist anymore.
But then my cheeks are tickled – And I have to get up to fill her bowl.