I am waking up. The fog is clearing.
I laugh naturally. I get songs in my head. I make decisions. But I’ve still got a long way to go.
Small things that I used to take in stride are now hurdles looming large in front of me. I conquer them, but it takes a lot of pep talking and rather than leaping, I claw my way over using thousands of baby steps. This is hard to get used to. I want to be me again. When I was in the throes of this battle, I knew better than to compare myself to the overachiever I once was. Now that I can see the end is near, I want to find my way back to being that person again.
I know I shouldn’t be in a hurry. I’ve tried to rush progress before and it brought me to the brink of a relapse. I know it is better to take it one day at a time and, if things are particularly rocky, to take them one moment at a time instead.
If only life slowed down to make this possible.
I’m impatient because life is speeding along and flying past me while I continue to move at a snail’s pace. I have clawed myself back from the deep dark depths of depression but if I don’t step up my game soon, I will find myself crushed by life itself. I need to be able to plan ahead. I need to regain my self confidence. I need to capture my initiative, reignite my creativity, take chances, move out of my comfort zone, and live again. Surviving is all well and good but there’s no passion behind it.
It is mind numbing. It is soul destroying.
Above all, I need to find the happy. I was a romantic. I lived with my heart on my sleeve, following it even when my mind told me to sit still and keep my mouth shut.
This illness made me apathetic and without fire. I want to be passionate again.
I get out of bed in the morning because the alarm goes off. I want to get up for something real.
I am sick of merely surviving, treading water. I am ready to move forward.
I just need to figure out how.
What makes me happy?
I have no idea.