Some days are not like others. I wake up and sense a difference, in me, my surroundings, life. On these days I want to stay in bed. Crawl under the covers and breathe in the warm air that comes from my own lungs. I want to close my eyes and pretend I’m in a cocoon, swaddled by the fibers wrapped around me, caressed back into a deep sleep.
But this luxury is not mine. I’m no worm ready to become a butterfly. I am a woman, with children and a husband. I am a woman who is needed by others. And though most days that feels good and right. On these days, there is nothing more difficult to imagine.
My head takes me here, this dark place. Nothing seems right. The skies are always grey. I find flaws in everything. I find spots that need scrubbing. Imperfections scream at me. I do not hang loose, relax, enjoy. I pick and find fault. In this mood, I am not myself or maybe more myself than I know. But it always shocks me, scares me.
And I am not immune to the criticism. I am the subject of it. The mirror lies to me, tells me that I haven’t changed, but I know I have. I can feel it. And others will soon agree with me. My face morphs and blends, creating a hazy canvas. I’m not sure where features begin and end. The template has changed and I’m hidden somewhere beneath.
I hide inside my perceptions. I smile but trust no one. I wish the darkness away. It has consumed me for too long. I’m tired. I look forward to once again feeling the sun on my face and the wind in my hair, timelessness being part of the problem. I can’t tell how long it’s been like this. I’ve lost track of time again.