There are days when the weight of everything feels too heavy to carry, and yesterday was one of them. Hell, every day for the past 3 years has been one of them.

I stayed in bed longer than I want to admit— but not long enough. Not because I was resting, but because I didn’t have the strength to face what the day was asking of me. The light outside felt harsh, almost offensive, like it was demanding something from me I didn’t have to give. My body was still, but my mind wasn’t. It circled the same thoughts over and over: the holiday coming up, the memories they drag behind them, the quiet dread that sits in my chest like a storm waiting to break.

Depression is exhausting. It’s not just being tired—it’s being emptied out. Even the smallest things feel impossible. And yet, underneath all of that, there’s still this faint, stubborn desire to be okay. To be healed. To feel something other than this heaviness.

That’s the contradiction I live in: wanting to disappear and wanting to be better at the same time.

I find myself pulling away from everything and everyone. Isolation feels safer somehow, like if I make my world small enough, I won’t have to confront the things that hurt me. But it’s a strange kind of safety—it protects, but it also traps. The longer I stay there, the harder it is to imagine stepping back out.

And then there’s sobriety. Becoming sober isn’t just about not using or not numbing out—it’s about feeling everything I used to avoid. Days like this test me. They whisper that there are easier ways to cope, quicker ways to escape. There is a choice that I can make to take me out of this pain in an instance. It would be better for all if I just removed myself. The pain would stop. The chaos would stop.

Right now, the biggest decision I have to make is whether to stay or go.