Flavors

Today, I’m exhausted.

I woke up, late, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a ball and go back to sleep. It takes me many minutes to drag my sorry carcass out of bed. My energy levels are absurdly low; even a small handful of French Roast coffee beans, ground between my teeth and pressed against the insides of my cheeks to maximize caffeine absorption, cannot seem to give me any energy.

It’s Saturday, and I’m still alive. Still existing, somehow.

I don’t feel alive.

These days slip like molasses through my fingers.  By the time I’m awake and alert enough to function, it feels like half of the day is gone, and whatever energy bursts I do get don’t seem to want to go anywhere useful. I am exhausted. By the time it’s nightfall, I’m itching to go back to sleep.

This is a new flavor of depression for me, and I don’t like it. I’m used to being the functional one, the strong one, the rock that never crumbles, acting okay on the outside even through the worst of the ups and downs.

I’m used to suicidal ideation and self-loathing and still managing to get up and get going and being able to put a day behind me. I’m used to wishing fervently for death, not slowly feeling myself drift away.

Ahedonia. Apathy. Exhaustion.

I don’t want to live this way.

I’d rather have the crushing despair back. At least I’m used to that flavor

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