We've taken a day off in my house today. All of us. We've taken a day off from the world. Jiggs has sat downstairs with my old Wii U and played Breath of the Wild for eight hours straight. I've sat in the armchair beside him, giving hints, playing Switch with the volume down, eating chocolate. Phace has lain in bed under blankets and watched formulaic detective shows on Netflix and snoozed.
We all work fatiguing low-paid jobs, all struggle with various issues, and life is not easy. So today we've taken a day off from everyone and everything, we've asked nothing of ourselves, we've eaten crappy food and not showered and slobbed about in old t-shirts and baggy pyjamas, and it has been glorious. Another week of this before I face reality again, please.
I still feel down. I don't know what's wrong with me. It's like I've reached 90 days and my brain has folded in on itself. All the negative voices that had retreated to a corner somewhere have flown back out. My skin is bad again, my forehead is spattered in tiny spots. I feel small and untalented and broken.
But I'm not going to worry, and I'm not going to stress. If I feel this way, so be it. I'm not going to ask more of myself than I can currently give. And what I can currently give is: very little.
I think I need lots of sleep, and to be gentle with myself, more than anything. So I'm not going to stay up for hours trying to make this blog post good. I'm not going to work on it until it feels like something of worth.
Sometimes the worth comes from simply not allowing yourself to go backwards. From not slipping any further. From putting your feet up with your housemates and eating junk food and saying, Sorry, world, but not today. I'm off today. Try calling again tomorrow.
Sometimes that's enough.
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