Drifting

Mental illness is months of being confined to half of your bed, because the other half is piled with clothes.

It's when your first thought upon waking each day is: "I can't wait to go back to sleep." Your alarm goes off for the ninth time; you snooze it.

It’s finally dragging yourself out of bed after the fifteenth snooze, two hours after you were supposed to get up.

It’s wearing the same three outfits over and over despite having a closet full of clothes. Sometimes it’s simply because you lack the energy to care; others, it’s because you care too much. You spend hours trying on outfit after outfit, hours scrutinizing your appearance and hating what you see. Defeated, you re-wear Monday’s shirt.

It’s the dread you feel every time you think of leaving the house, the anxiety every time you step through the door.

It’s missed trains, so many missed trains. Two hours late, and you still must sprint to make it. You reach the crest of the hill, legs heavy and throbbing, throat burning, heart pounding. You think about giving up—you’re already late, after all, what’s the difference? You soldier on anyway, hoping for just one success, for just one thing to go right that day. You strain your neck, hastily flicking sweat-dampened hair from your eyes to catch a glimpse of the track below—the track is empty, perhaps the train hasn’t arrived. You fly down the stairs, finally reaching the goal. Looking out, you see the train pulling away. You walk home.

It's feeling helpless, worthless.

It’s the constant feeling that you’re on the verge of tears.

It's unwritten emails, long overdue, that you've rehearsed in your head over and over but can't seem to send—apologies for missed classes, excuses for assignments missed, implorations for extensions. What do you tell them, how do you explain? Will they understand the cold fear that settles in your stomach as you walk into class, the desire to run as everyone’s eyes turn, watching you walk to your seat? You recall the number of times you’ve arrived just ten minutes late, hesitated at the door, and turned back—skipping class rather than suffer their scrutiny. You search your mind helplessly for an explanation for the assignments you missed, many of which you’d already written in your head but couldn’t seem to put to paper. You sit at your computer, email open, staring at a blank message. You wonder what this teacher thinks of you—the ghost student—and recoil at the scenario your mind constructs… you close the window.

It’s guilt.

It's canceled plans: a birthday dinner, your best friend's graduation party, a date with your crush.

It's regret.

It's forgetting to eat; it's bingeing and purging. It’s years of counting calories, avoiding carbs as though you’d burn at their touch and jogging on an empty stomach because it’s supposed to melt more fat. It’s a constant feeling of dissatisfaction, every moment of the day spent restricting, whilst day-dreaming about what you’re going to eat next.

It’s the unease you feel every time you face your family, fearfully waiting for them to ask how you’ve been. You try to smile. “Good,” you answer.

It's lying awake at night—agonizing over past mistakes and missed chances; contemplating your future and the purpose of your existence; imagining death and fearing what comes, or doesn't come, after. It’s desperately wishing you could sleep, begging to escape your thoughts, hopelessly bargaining with your body for a moments peace.

It's a constant state of weary.

It's the apathy you feel as you watch your life fall apart.

It's when your last thought at night, as you finally drift to sleep is: "I hope I don't wake up."