My phone rings obnoxiously, my work phone echoes with its own irritating alarm, and my smartwatch buzzes annoyingly as I try to will myself to finally get up and end this cacophony of sounds that I hoped would make getting up easier. 

I sigh heavily already mad at myself. Last night I laid in my bed naively hoping today I will be able to change into the person I want to be, into the person I once almost was. 

The cacophony continues. I still haven’t left my bed, but a glance at one of my phones makes me realize I have already wasted over 10 minutes in bed. 

Sighing once again, I cast a glance at my semi-messy desk ⁠— a daily dosage of atomoxetine is awaiting me with some mood stabilizers and piracetam that promises to fix my good for nothing memory. 

I should get up, and take them — they will make functioning somehow possible.

I should take the right dosage — I promised myself, this time no self-sabotaging.

I should care… I should try… 

After all, I like my job—

I think?

I do, don’t I?

Have I?

Have I enjoyed it?

When was the last time I genuinely enjoyed something for more than 10 minutes?

My existentially dreadful thoughts are interrupted. 

Before, I failed to notice that blaring alarms had gone quiet. Now, however, I can hear my neighbours yipping dog — yes, that woke me up from existential crisis — and I realize that once again I will have to compromise on my skincare routine to get to work on time.

That then will lead to poor skin condition, which in turn to a depressive epi-

Stop. Breathe in, breathe out. Your thoughts are running, go and take meds. 

Good, well done. Pop those pills like you really trust them to better your condition. Keep going, champ. 

Now, onto the next great task. Two-stage skincare routine: brush teeth, cleanse your ugly mug asap. 

Yey, now, clothes. Go, go, go!

Mission “prepare to go to work” accomplished. You are not the ultimate failure your insecurities make you think. 

I congratulate myself on not failing as I take my flat in. Even to my standards, it is quite messy. A bunch of dirty dishes on the counter, a chair full of unfolded clothes, my school work and computer set aside instead of remaining neatly in their dedicated places. It makes me feel weak. I know that when I get back from work, I won’t clean up and my mess will only accumulate making me feel trapped inside my own tiny flat. 

Over a month ago, I have finally got my diagnosis and was prescribed medication; I set my mind on being helpful and taking a leap of faith. A few years ago I was diagnosed with the depressive-anxiety disorder. While the diagnosis seemed like a hit, the medication was a miss. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Thrice. 

My shrink didn’t really listen to me, I had to battle him each time we met. He seemed tired of me. I was getting more and more desperate. My medication didn’t help. I was spiralling. At some point, I started silently begging for the medication to give me side effects so that I could see that something was happening. 

Getting off a high dosage of drug X just to start drug Y? Ha, obviously.

Dropping the drug altogether because I was pissed? Betcha.

Getting high on codeine? Not a moment to be proud, but yes. A moment that made me painfully away I do not want to do drugs after all. A teaching moment if you will.

Surprisingly — not — I gave up. I just could not keep doing it any longer. I abandoned my shrink and battled alone. Somehow, I survived the immense suffering that I had to face all alone. This time without even a half-assing shrink. 

I realize how lucky I got. I survived my worst period, gained the support of a competent psychiatrist as I finally learned the root of my struggles. Or at least, the root of some of them. 

My smartwatch buzzes again, this time with a warning indicating it is high time to go to my job. 

As I leave my flat, I think back to my teenage years, and my best friend. I miss those times greatly. Back then, I functioned better, I felt better… Before I can get too fond of those memories, I recall his shy demeanour, the great friendship he offered me, the shell he became after his last foster family had taken him in. When he was back, we all fought hard to help him overcome the pain and trauma that were his legacy gained from that household. 

Even then I was aware of his fondness — I failed to understand them — I was terrified of it. I could never give him the love and affection he desperately wished from me. Love and affection I know he deserved, to my mind he deserves all the love in the entire world. 

However, I could not give it to him. That was the first time I hated that part of myself. I wanted to burst into tears, I barely held myself from shivering in fear, the fear that consumed me. All of that paled in comparison to the realization that I would give him the final blow that would utterly break him. Once we got him back, I swore I would take care of him, that I would never let anything break him again. Therefore, the thought of being the cause of his final breakdown made me sick to my stomach.

I was scared of Micah confessing his love to me.

I should have known better though. This time Micah was my hero.