It starts quietly, almost invisible to everyone but me. It’s not dramatic, it’s not sudden, but it seeps in slowly like water filling the cracks I thought I sealed.
I can still move my body but it feels heavy. My smile still works but it feels fake. The things that used to light me up now feels dimmed and far, like I’m watching my own life through a stained window I can’t open. And I notice it now, clearer, and before anyone else.
I can feel my mind slowing down in a way that scares me. I’ve met this version so many times and I don’t like her.
I know exactly what it is. I know what comes next. It’s a familiar darkness standing just outside my door and I’m scared. I’m scared that my meds can only do so much but stopping it isn’t one of them.
But saying it means I’m still aware, I’m still here and I haven’t disappeared yet.
And even though I can feel it, there’s still a part of me, the stubborn part that refuses. It’s the part that still tries to function even when it’s heavy. It’s the part of me who remembers who I was and remembers the things I forget when I’m low.
I’ve been here before, I remember.
So I try to remind myself that this is not who I am, just where I am.
It’s temporary even when it feels endless. I’ve survived every one of this before that’s why I won’t punish myself for feeling this way.
Instead I’ll move gently, move slowly and listen to what my body needs.
I’ll rest without calling it weakness.
Because the truth is… it’s here.
And I can’t fight it no matter how hard I try because I don’t have the energy to resist it.
One of these days, my world will be dimmed and everything will feel slow and if I go quiet for awhile it’s not because I gave up. It’s because I’m here again, in this place I never chose but always has to pass through.
But this time, I’ll let time do what it always does—carry me specially when I’m not strong enough to push. One hour, one day, one breath at a time until the weight lets go and I come back to me.
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