All week I’ve been gearing myself up for today: pay day. The day when my inherent poverty loosens slightly and for a short, brief, magical moment I am able to look at my bank balance without recoiling in fear. As I stepped through each day this week I kept reminding myself I’m paid Friday and I am off this weekend. That I was going to enjoy myself. Then of course I woke up this morning and these plans shattered into more pieces than America will if Trump gets into power. Why? Oh yes, another low day has dawned.
The last few nights I’ve been having really vivid dreams; I can’t for the life of me remember much of them, only fragments, but as such I feel like I’ve not rested properly. Consequently I’m now damned to crawl through today looking and feeling like a zombie. It’s not even midday yet and I feel like I’m slowly having to drag each individual word from a cold mine in the pit of my stomach up to my mouth whenever I’m forced to speak to someone. Which in turn they shall perceive as rude, and then be rude back, to which the outcome will be me feeling worse about myself but being unable to muster the energy to ability to do anything about it. If only retreating to bed was a viable option.
I am going to assume the reason behind the dreams and poor sleep is my over active mind throughout the course of the day. I am continuously wrestling with my inner critic, gruffly telling myself to carry on, shake it off, that I’m just being stupid and paranoid. I wish I was one of those people that were born was absolutely zero self-critical reflex, I’m sure they just ease through their day. Like most people I can keep a handle on my thought pattern, normally because I am at work and thus preoccupied. However, when I fling myself into bed at night my mind decides to pick up every hitch-hiking negative thought that flags it down, all of which won’t stop tutting and murmuring about all the ‘mistakes’ I made that day, petulantly kicking the back of my seat until I pay attention. Fucking back-seat drivers. My thoughts are like cockroaches; only once the lights are turned off do they start scuttling around my head.
On days such as these I feel forced to over dramatise all of my actions and responses in order to convince everyone that I am fine. This half-arsed pantomime is probably the most draining production I’ve ever participated in; I’d much rather be pulling a disappointed expression all day. What makes matters worse on days like this is someone asking for guidance or help. I truly want to help you, comfort you or whatever you need, but just not today. I’m terrible cheerleader on days like this. I simply cannot egg you on, my hearts not in. I would be an awful Jesus.
I have employed a few techniques in the past in attempted to assist me with coping on days like these. Sort of psychological cleansing rituals if you will. I’ve imagined trapping all these thoughts inside a random object, such as a football, then symbolically I boot it out the window and get on with my day. But it never really works and now every football I see I immediately assume it is harbinger of terrible consequence.
So here I am, witlessly pawing at the keyboard, about to go get ready for work. Preparing myself for another encounter with the looming iceberg of depression whose ominous presence is threatening to sink my mood to never-before-reached depths, transforming my whines of self-doubt into cries on abject panic. At least it’s pay day though.