Sometimes I can’t get out of bed. I feel like nothing is real except for sleep. I could sleep for eternity. The sun can be shining. It could be the perfect temperature but I’m alone, locked under those sheets. I’m so tired. I don’t know why. I’ve slept for hours upon hours. Yawn, sigh, I pull the shades down, lock the door, ignore the day that’s calling for me.
I have a meeting. I have to see friends. I need to do anything but there I am, my warm bed weighing me down.
Sometimes it’s the nightmares. The dreams. The pain. The feeling nothing will ever truly be better. It’s always the same. I’ve spent years missing weeks of my life. A school week, a friend week, a family week, it doesn’t matter. They are all the same and I’ve missed them. I’m irresponsible the unknown say. I wish they were right.
Sleeping turns to fears to anxiety to the overwhelming weight holding down my chest.
A vicious cycle that year after year, I can’t ever seem to shake. The help never ends it or the motivation or the slight glimpse of joy. I fight to get up and out that door. I’ve fought and lost and won. An endless struggle, but that bed calls. It always wins.
Sometimes in pleasure, I have a day to spend, but others, that bed is my worst enemy.
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