Some days I wake up restless for life, ready for a jog at 7 AM. Some days I smoke half a pack of cigarettes even though I will tell anyone who ever asks I am not a smoker.
Some days I cannot stop eating even when I know I am full, pushing myself past comfortable limits and some days the smell of my favourite meal is enough to send me walking out the door.
Some days, I can go to work. Some days I can go to work, and do my laundry. Some days I can go for a run before work, clean my apartment, and get ready to go out with my friends; and on some of these days I can also manage to drink enough but not get drunk and wash my face before crawling into bed to await a morning with no hang over.
My life is made up of some days. I do not by default have good days, nor do I have bad ones either. My life is a constant, even flow of okay and fine and excellent and depressed. A doctor asked me if things had been looking down more often, if my mood had been declining perpetually. I replied “that’s a complicated question.” because it’s not that I was having more of the bad, or more of the good. Just that on these days I was swinging a little higher that my high, and a little lower than my low.
Some days I think to myself “be the person you wanted to be when you were a kid”. Some days I think “fuck it I didn’t know anything, everything is different from up here.”
On all of these days, I have been myself. I have not given up my identity to nicotine, nor to green smoothies. I do not let myself be shackled to being put together with pearls nor to wearing vintage t-shirts and dirty jeans. There are days that my anxiety pushes me to lying to cancel plans, and days I can rationalize my worries enough to put off self-induced panic. And I am realizing that some days are about putting what I’ve learned to use, and some days are about learning.