It starts with, “I’m gonna be productive today” and in a snap it goes to, “Fuck, I need to breathe and stay alive. This shit is hard!”
Palms get sweaty, body goes numb, cold sweat breaks out, wanting to scream, wanting to cry, just basically wanting know that I’m really alive and not close to death.
Bad days start as a good day and gradually pisses me off with unreasonable doubt and unreasonable triggers which aren’t really unreasonable because they came from something and it just makes me tick as to why they’re still here when it’s been three fucking years and they shouldn’t be bothering me anymore!
Bad days are days that stretch into weeks, months, or worse, years. Not that it has stretched more than two months but who knows, these bitches don’t exactly get the picture I want to paint.
Bad days are days when eating, drinking, living and honestly, breathing are choices that I have to make. Which isn’t supposed to be a choice because they are essential to my life, right? Or am I wrong this time?
Bad days turn my sunny side ups and bacon to a frowning eggs benedict with goo that I don’t like to eat because that is a pain in my hands which I can’t for the life of me use to hold my fork.
Bad days turn a normal day into a devil’s spawn who wants nothing from me but my life, it sucks the life out of me and makes me think that I am a useless piece of shit in this world and I’m not good enough for anything.
Bad days make me question the choices and decisions I’ve been making for the past three years are make me want to barf everything I ate last week and even pizza can’t cheer me up.
Bad days make me believe that I’m a no good piece of trash and my friends are tired of my shit because I can’t even explain what’s wrong, why it’s wrong, how it’s wrong and where it hurts, so I lay in bed an contemplate about taking my life or just sleeping, because really, effort is a mother fucker when it’s a bad day.
Bad days can turn into worse days in a minute and a half after thinking that a cold shower can cure my mood and I can start over with coffee, scratch that, I can’t drink coffee anymore because it makes me jumpy and anxious and hyper and a manic version of a girl on her bad day.
Bad days are worst days when the tick of the clock slows every hour and every hour seems like days and months have passed and I feel like death has come and wants to drag me to hell and let me serve my sentence for being a bitch baby who can’t fight for herself.
But really, a bad day is just an accumulation of every bad thing that happened in the span of time that I was happy and my illness was just checking in on my reality wanting to put its foot down my throat and make me remember that we are closer friends than happiness.