Today was one of those days where doing anything seemed to be a lot of effort and I just couldn’t be bothered to do it.
A day, then, in which my brain was kicking me for thinking about doing things to the extent where I didn’t really do anything apart from lounge around and go for a nap in the afternoon, which I haven’t done for so long that I’d forgotten what it felt like to not want to get out of bed afterwards.
It was the first day, since March, that I didn’t bother going for a shower at all during the day.
It felt wrong. Very wrong, in fact. But I couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to go for a shower.
And yet, I didn’t feel down in the dumps or anything. Not outwardly, anyway. I wasn’t really aware of it. It was just a cumulative effect of everything that I didn’t do, or didn’t want to do. Just adding up, quietly, on top of me not feeling it in the slightest.
Mental health is a funny thing. A very weird and funny thing. Not hilariously funny, obviously. Just funny peculiar. You think you have a handle on it and then it wangs in a curve ball and knocks you for six, even if you don’t realise it at the time.
I’m just going to go to bed and sleep it away. And hopefully wake up tomorrow with a bit more oomph than I have today.
Maybe it’s linked to Carole being back at work on a few days of the week, instead of being somewhere around the house. Maybe that’s what it is? I don’t know.
I’m just going to go to bed and be done with it.
See what tomorrow brings.