Faking it

Tonight should feel comfortable, but the air is too thick and sticky for comfort. My hair is pushed back into a wilted ponytail that's clinging to the back of my neck. With each yawn, I can almost feel the dregs of my mascara gathering into a robber's mask underneath my eyes. A day spent talking has left me craving my own silence. The receivers are working, but the transmitter is stuck. Let me take everything in. Let me absorb. I'll make sense of it later, but there are no more words I can say sensibly.

I'm surrendering to the fatigue now. I've earned this exhaustion. I built my day around the activities I know that I need: prayer time, writing time in the morning, plenty of grooming time to build the passable facade I don't feel, a structured work day, evening housework, some family time, some exercise time, some passive relaxation time. These are the activities of a normal life.
Each one felt like a set of bench presses, but I got them done, and I did them with either a smile or a pleasant demeanor. For that I can pat my own back.

My prescription finally came through today. I wonder if if it will be days or weeks before I feel anything different, before life feels normal again. Until then, if I keep up what I did today, I'm faking it well.

depression