Getting Out of Bed is an Accomplishment

It's been almost a week now since I've left the safety of my cotton dungeon. My thoughts are slow, except for the intrusive ones, piercing my brain like knives, rendering me physically unable to move.

I don't want to die in here, but surely, everything out there will kill me. I must keep myself safe. I use medication to manufacture my sleep and then I watch videos of transgender people de-transitioning all day.

There is one dim pink lightbulb on my elephant lamp that burns day and night. Pink is a disarming color. It's actually been used in some prisons in order to reduce aggression while in the holding cell waiting to be transferred. It has been shown to have a stress reducing effect. I guess that's why I like it so much.

It shines reliably across the room from me like a beacon of hope that one day, all of my stress will be burned away. Until then I have to try and function with my deficits. I've actually been surprisingly productive in my hopelessness thanks to technology. I'm almost done with a degree. I even held a job online. I hold club meetings for an organization I started. I pretty much do everything just using my mind, physical body irrelevant. I essentially live my life like a paraplegic.

I always thought that having this access to technology was helping me rather than hindering me, but I can see now that it's actually enabling me, helping me to stay stuck. Like a mother who keeps giving her child money for drugs, my computer mother makes it so I do not have to physically show up to anything but can still receive the same accolades. Can I do this forever? How far can I take it? How far can I take my degrees? Can I become a doctor from my bed? Perhaps a therapist? Maybe I'll create some sort of chair shaped bed and just see all my patient's from bed. As long as I'm wearing a nice top, no one will have to know I live in my sweatpants. The options really are endless.

Though the internet is the friend that will never abandon me, I've already started rejecting certain parts of it that no longer serve me. For example, I don't use any photo sharing social media anymore. My depression loves websites like instagram, but I don't.

Scrolling through the mental casino trying to fill my wallet up with dopamine only keeps me in psychological and emotional poverty. Constantly being flooded with reminders that everyone else has an awesome life and I can't even create a highlight reel just reinforces the depression. When I compare myself to people who are on beautiful vacations with perfect makeup in the perfect relationship it makes conquering my depression seem insurmountable. It is actually self harming to go on social media. Armed with that knowledge, realizing I don't want to make myself feel bad anymore, I've completely cut myself off.

I know nothing in a virtual realm can heal me, only distract me from and help me dissociate further from my surroundings; the things I can actually feel, smell, hear and see. With that, I know the uncomfortable path I need to take in order to de-transition from the fuzzy, warm hug of my depression. Having the sheets wrapped around me all day, my silk pillowcases, my back supported by the soft gel mattress. I need to transition to my true self. Is my true self just a depressed person though?

No, I am not my depression. I am not an illness. It's only one facet of me. Tomorrow, I have to venture out into the blazing hot desert. I finally transitioned from online therapy to in person. This has been for the better as it forces me to go through the motions of self care for my body, followed by my mind.

I have to burn the new neural pathways one action at a time.

Tomorrow, I'll get out of bed.