On The Days It’s Hard To Get Out Of Bed, Remember This

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I’ve lost track of mornings that came and I felt unprepared to see out the rest of the day. It’s a familiar scene: scrambling to hit the snooze button and groaning at the thought of getting up. Sometimes I consider pretending morning never arrived. I can slip back to sleep and blame it on an eternal nighttime. If I shut the blinds, who could even tell the difference?

To others, the morning is a start — the beginning or a blessing or whatever else you may read on an inspirational mug from Etsy. Wake up! It’s time to make your dreams come true. Another morning, another gift!

When the idea of facing the world feels more daunting than exciting, motivational words just fall by the wayside.

They have good intentions, of course. And for some people, I imagine they do work.

But Netflix is so much more inviting. It’s so much easier for Depression to pull back the covers and say, “Come back in. Just stay here.”

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

Okay, no, that’s not accurate. I do. I do know. Doctors and therapists and family history have all told me. But having the answers doesn’t always eliminate the problem. The answers are just answers, not cures.

On the days it’s hard to get out of bed, I remember the things I love.

I remember the tiniest things, like the way that attractive barista’s lips move when he says my name. Or how I’m obsessed with the smell of garlic and have never understood how garlic breath is a bad thing. My mind wanders from there. I think about the last guy who felt like home and how we ate garlic fries once and made out the rest of the night.

I think about the creek down the street from my best friend’s house and how we used to try and catch tadpoles after school. There was the summer we each caught one and watched them grow into frogs. We released them back to the same creek and made up stories about them meeting and falling in love, having tadpoles of their own one day.

Those mornings the alarm on my phone goes off and I wish it never did, I hear my goddaughter giggling or my best friend laughing so hard she ends up snorting. There is joy and silliness and even memories that embarrass me, like the time I collided face first with concrete in front of my middle school crush. He helped me back up though. I can’t forget that part.

And, most importantly, I remember the big stuff. Things like my mother’s sacrifices, or the dreams she put aside to give me every opportunity to follow my heart. I think about my pain and how I’d never want to do anything that might double hers. She hurts in many of the same ways I do. But she fights. And she gets up. I share her blood. I must have that same fight inside me, too.

Like I said, these thoughts aren’t cures. They don’t fix everything. I’m not in the camp of believing you can positively think your way to perfect happiness and bliss. But they do give me a push. They beckon me to try even when if, sometimes, I’ll fall back. Trying doesn’t mean you’re going to always succeed. But you’re giving yourself a shot. You’re giving yourself a chance.

On the days it’s hard to get out of bed, I remember the only way it gets better is if I actually get out. There will never be sunshine if I keep the blinds permanently shut. TC mark

Ari Eastman

āœØ real(ly not) chill. poet. writer. mental health activist. mama shark. āœØ

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