Toothpaste on my shirt

There’s toothpaste on my shirt again.

A minty injury, announcing to the world that I made it out of bed today.
That I managed to eat and drink this morning.
That I forced myself to the sink, gagged on the overwhelming taste of

clean

and failed the most basic task of a functioning human.

Even this little victory, in my war against myself, is fraught with casualties
– hairy legs, forgetting deodorant, a breath freshening wound on my shirt –
and I fear I’ve lost this battle.

Some battles are over in a flash; all it takes is an
alliance, forged through proximity and companionship,

hot tea and friendship my favourite weapons.
They hurt the most.

Some extend into sieges, months long, the casualties growing by the day;

friends, boyfriend, parents, siblings, work, music, telly. Self care
falls to the wayside. No time, no energy, no focus outside of the war, the battle to overcome myself.

The wins turn into losses turns into an all encompassing fear of losing.
My opponent doesn’t celebrate the wins nor do they mourn the losses.
Their only desire is to keep me in the war, until the world moves on around me and I am trapped in this fight forever.

It’s nearly impossible for me to brush my teeth without getting toothpaste on something.

Some days, the attack is so brutal, there’s no toothpaste at all.

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Toothpaste on my shirt

  1. I’ve never know how to describe to someone how hard it is to do the basic functional tasks that are expected of humans when you’re depressed. You hit the nail on the head this was so thought provoking.

    Like

    1. Thank you! It’s so hard sometimes. I’ve found it so difficult to talk about as well because people think you’re kinda gross if you don’t shower or whatever, but it’s such a real part of depression.

      Like

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