It started a few weeks back. It was a sunny Thursday morning and I woke up early, before my alarm. I decided to go out for a run, because how often do you wake up before your alarm and actually feel rested? I slipped into my Nike tights and sports bra, pulled a sweater over my head and jumped into my running shoes. Off I went.
It’s kind of crazy how silent my neighborhood gets between like, 4 and 7 am. Now it was 6.30 and no one was out except for a guy in flip flops, ugly shiny shorts and a Columbia alumni sweater walking his dog. I took left out on Havemayer, which a sort-of-friend very thoroughly explained to me does not read Ha-vey-mayer, but Have-mayer. When I reach Metropolitan the cars are waiting at the traffic light and the white walking man is lighting up, so I run out in the street to cross. I don’t see the black car turning out behind me until it’s running into me and I, in some kind of superpower reflex ninja mode, manage to throw myself away from it onto the ground. It’s like everything freezes. The world stops. I was just hit by a car. The man in the truck who’s kindly waiting for the red light to turn green, jumps out from his seat. “What the fuck man? You just hit her!” He screams at the driver in the black car and I get up on shaky legs with a rage building up. People are honking and screaming and I feel like I could kill this man. “What the fuck! Look where you’re driving you fucking idiot!!!” I slam his car with my hand, hoping it will leave a bump, but turns out I do not own arm muscles so the only thing that gets hurt is my hand. He apologizes, I give him the finger and continue my run for about a minute before I break into tears on a stoop on N 5th.
What followed after this has been an emotional rollercoaster where I haven’t really recognized myself. I see this particular incident as the start of my anxiety filled, teary eyed, anger issue streak. I'm aware that thinking this was some sort of starting signal for a do-I-dare-calling-it-a-semi-depression is naive, but still. Over the weekend that followed my skin developed some kind of rash which appeared all over my body. On my butt, my legs, my arms, on my chest. I don’t want anyone to see me without clothes on because there’s no way I dare to wax when my skin looks like this. And I really don't want anyone to touch me because then I have to scratch and if I start I can’t stop. For almost a month now, I haven’t slept through a night because it itches so much. I’ve emptied all kinds of creams and ointments that are supposed to make it better, but nothing helps. After some intense googling and about a hundred self diagnoses, I’m now cutting out gluten of my diet because eczemas are a symptom for intolerance and my skin kind of looks like the Google image result. This means no beer. Great.
I’ve been feeling a lot of rage. Being angry at everyone for no reason at all. When people have texted me or messaged me on facebook I haven’t replied except for the few ones I’ve been able to keep my cool with. Several phone calls to my parents have included tears caused by them asking me how I’m doing. I haven’t been very talkative or taking initiatives at work. There's been zero energy for anything except going to work, going home from work and watching One Tree Hill (which you can laugh about, but there is no better way to let your tears out than watching Haley and Nathan break up and get back together a million times).
Now I’m not sure if it’s getting better, or if I’m just getting used to the feeling of not feeling great. I usually feel great. I don’t know what’s going on. Did something break me? Did I break me? I’m starting to think that my prioritizes this last year have been totally off and now all of a sudden, I don’t know how to live a normal life. Or... Am I just a drama queen who needs to chill the fuck out and realize that life isn’t always a plate of perfectly aged cheese and fig jam? Probably.
I cut my hair because I thought it would make me feel better. Because, we all know hair and mood is tightly intervened. It made me feel prettier, that’s for sure, but not better. So at least now we know, looks isn’t what makes us who we are which I guess is a relief. I’m not really sure what I need to do to get out of this funk, but I need to do something. And so, since I need a new writing challenge, I was thinking I’ll write myself out of it. A getting out of a do-I-dare-calling-it-a-semi-depression-diary, if you will. And I'll write it here, so that all of you can indulge in my misery. I don't know, maybe it'll help someone else. But most importantly I hope it helps me because this doesn't work anymore.