Anxiety, Depression, Life, Mental Health, Writing

The Stories I Made Up

I didn’t write yesterday. I can’t give a reason why. I’d just be making it up. I’m unsure what I felt yesterday. I didn’t wanna get out of bed. I didn’t wanna think, talk or socialise. I didn’t wanna do anything.

My other half had to drag me out of bed. It took us half an hour to do our food shop because I was on extra slow mode. I did nothing towards my goals. I didn’t go to a birthday celebration I originally said I’d go to.

Apart of me made up the story that as soon as I’d arrive at the party, they would want to go into town and use me as a taxi. My other half and I had already agreed that we were only going to the house party part of the evening.

This probably was never going to happen. Because of how I was I’d never know what would have happened. I did say to my other half that if he wanted to go, I’d go. He decided we wouldn’t. I think that was because of how I was.

I don’t have any feelings of regret. This morning I feel slightly numb. I feel more alive.

We do have plans today with another friend. This, there is no doubt about me having to go. I know I don’t have to feel like I have to hide my emotions and thoughts this afternoon.

The story I made up is that those who were at the party last night would not understand how I am or would judge me. Again until, if, I tell them about how I am. I’m never gonna know.

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