I need to get out of my head.

Today is kind of unusual.
I don’t have a house to clean or any appointments. I keep hitting refresh on my classes and nothing has come in.

I should take this time to work on my book, color, read…. do something. I’ve stumbled onto a golden day that I’d dream of. A day that I could unabashedly work on personal pursuits.

But I find myself paralyzed. I can’t do anything but sleep and, at this point, I’ve mostly done that. I’ve slept the day away for the most part.

Hence the feeling of overwhelming guilt, shame, and self-indigitation. Why can’t I just enjoy this semi-rainy day? Why can’t I work or do anything that I feel is enjoyable?

Why did it take two hours of self-bulling to even write this post?

Everything fills me with revulsion and disgust. Even talking to the little sister on the phone for a minute was enough to make me mentally recoil and feel ill. And that was just for a minute.

It wasn’t anything she said or did. It was all on me and I acknowledge that. And it’s all in my head and I can’t get out of it.

I’m failing. I’m a failure. I should be so much more than what I am right now. The me from ten years ago would so kick my current ass and I wouldn’t have the strength to stop her.

I don’t know.
It’s not even noon and I’m considering going back to sleep.

Maybe that’s what I should do. Just sleep my days away when possible. Then I won’t be a burden to myself or to others. I’d sleep when no one is around so they don’t know.

Yeah, if my therapist read that, she’d probably put me on suicide watch plaid. Although I’m not – NOT – considering self harm. Never have. Well, at least not like that. Getting up in the morning could be considered self-harm. My anorexia is definitely self harm.

Isn’t it funny how some self-harm actions, like overeating, smoking, drinking, and vaping, are okay and acceptable but others aren’t? Where are American values and morales?

Well… yeah. I think I’ve been up since eight. That’s a whole three and a half hours today. I’m going to go back to sleep.

Screw it.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll resume my life. Write that book that I’ve been meaning to for the past thirty years. Maybe?