Some days feel like they showed up just to fuck with you. No big drama. No meltdown. No catastrophe you can point to and say, “Yeah, that’s why I’m not okay.” Just a quiet, numbing fog that wraps itself around your brain, your chest, your body and says, “Nope, not today.” And you’re left there blinking at the ceiling like, Cool. Love that for me. Thanks for the random spiral, Universe. Super, duper kind.
That’s today for me.
I don’t feel great. I don’t feel okay. I don’t even feel like me, really. And the worst part is – I don’t know why. I don’t have a neat little answer or a triggering event. I’m not drunk. I’m not ghosted. No tragedy just happened. And yet, I feel like I’ve been emotionally clotheslined by a ghost I can’t see.
It’s not quite the “I don’t know how to feel okay feeling okay” thing either, although I’ve been there. When the chaos finally stops and you’re left sitting in the silence like someone turned off the static but also the music. But this isn’t that. This is more like… I’m trying. I’m doing the damn work. And still – some days just suck. No headline. No lesson. Just suck.
And I’m tired of saying, “That’s okay.”
Because while I know – deep down, somewhere past the exhaustion – that it is okay to not feel okay, I also want one fucking good week. Seven days. In a row. That’s it. Not some emotional Hunger Games where I make it to Thursday feeling semi-human, only to be sideswiped by a rogue Tuesday kind of sadness. I want a whole stretch of normal. Just to see what it feels like. I think I’ve earned that, haven’t I?
And maybe this mood is the meds. I’ve been weaning off – just half. A responsible half. With intention and caution and awareness. But here I am wondering: Am I only ever going to feel okay if I’m not slightly medicated? Will my brain ever be able to carry itself without help? Will I be strong enough on my own? And there’s a quiet shame in that question. Like I should know better. Like I should be okay by now.
But I don’t know.
And honestly, that might be the most honest thing I can say right now: I don’t know.
I don’t know how to just be. I’m learning, I swear I am. I’m getting better at staying present, at not judging every thought that passes through. At being okay with being alone – and not saying it like it’s a bad thing. I’ve started holding my own hand through the hard stuff, not waiting for someone else to do it. I see the changes. I see the girl I used to be – drunk, desperate, over-giving, under-asking – and I know I’m not her anymore. I know I’ve fought to get here.
But some days, it doesn’t feel like enough. Some days, the progress feels paper-thin. Some days I want to scream at the clouds: I’M DOING MY BEST, OKAY? WHERE’S MY REWARD? Not a gold medal. Just a fucking break.
Patience is a virtue I keep saying I don’t have. And maybe I need to stop saying that. Maybe repeating that line has turned it into a prophecy I never meant to write. Because the truth is: I do have patience. I’ve been patient with my healing. With my memories. With the younger versions of me who didn’t know better. I’ve been patient with people who didn’t deserve it and with days like this one that offer no answers. That is patience.
But damn, I’m also allowed to be frustrated. I’m allowed to say, “I don’t feel good today and I don’t want to have to turn it into art.” I’m allowed to not be inspiring. To not dig for a hidden meaning in the mud. Some days just suck. Some days just are. And that’s not failure. That’s life.
I know I’m getting better. Slowly. Unevenly. But better. I feel it in how I talk to myself now. I don’t go full monster anymore. I check in. I try to be soft – even when I’m tired, even when I want to scream. And I still cry sometimes. I still fall apart in weird places. I still wonder if I’ll ever be fully okay. But that doesn’t mean I’m not healing. That doesn’t mean I haven’t come far.
It just means I’m human. And today, this human is not okay.
So here I am. Writing it out. Not because it fixes anything but because it makes me feel seen – even by myself. And if you’re reading this and nodding, thank you. It means I’m not the only one who wakes up on a random August morning wondering why existing feels like dragging a piano uphill.
Maybe some days are just like this. And maybe letting ourselves admit it – without shame, without solutions – is the bravest thing we do.
So yeah. I don’t know. I don’t feel good. I want one good week. I’m scared of the meds. I’m impatient. I’m trying. I’m tired.
And somehow, I’m still here. That’s gotta count for something.
Right?
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