I spent my whole day in bed, feeling limp and broken. I didn't eat or drink. I didn't text any of my friends. I didn't let my cats into my room. All day I fought the urge to text my boyfriend asking if he still loved me (He never gave me any reason to think he didn't). I worried for hours whether I'd establish myself as the fabled weird roommate to the two girls I'll live with in two weeks. My stomach tied itself in knots over nothing/everything at once. On top of it all I felt guilty for thinking or feeling any of these things in the first place.
Having an anxiety disorder is exhausting.
But tonight (on a whim!) I put on Lauryn Hill, made myself spicy pizza with fresh mozzarella, and pulled out my sketchbook and colorful pens for the first time in well over a year. I pushed through the inevitable and near-immediate frustration at how the pen in my hand refused to do what my mind wanted it to. I gave myself room for error and imperfection without criticism. And in the end my ugly, uncreative, out-of-practice doodles made me swell up with a sense of accomplishment.
Lauryn Hill left her fame behind to exist more authentically. She isn't ashamed to be flawed or overtly emotional or ask for what she wants outright. The world is hers. Her music empowers me to finally feel like myself again. But if I'm being honest with myself, it's been in me all along.
I'm going to have more bad days (a lot of them). But all I needed was tonight's glimmer of overwhelming optimism to remind me that bad days aren't the only ones, and that my being isn't a flaw in our universe's grand design. I'm not supposed to be perfect. I'm a work in progress.
"Every day's another chance, to get it right this time."
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